The Grey Eyed Wolf
by LadyAryaBaratheon
Summary: Gendry never forgave himself for losing her. All these years, the guilt had torn at him. When he hears her sister and brother are alive, and rebuilding their home, he knows he owes it to her to explain to them how he lost their sister, one of the last Starks. Only, when she arrives home, alive and allied with a dragon queen, will any of them survive the war looming on the horizon?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hey there, just wanna say a few things! :) this is my first fic, so please be gentle, though I admit freely to being a review whore ;) and I think there's going to be two or three more parts of the same length as this, and I'll try and get them up fairly soon if there's any requests to keep going :P also, this is about three years after aDwD, so if you haven't finished it this could contain some spoilers! Thats about all, so enjoy!

Just for fun, I'll tell you that I picture a paler Mila Kunis as an older Arya :L that really is all!

**Disclaimer: GRRM owns everthing, and also my soul :D **

Gendry watched her. He watched her yawn at court, watched her throw glares at the men who attempted to compliment her, watched her face light up as the galloped wildly over the countryside, the wind in her hair. She rode better than any knight he'd ever seen, leaving servants and squires, lords and ladies, kings and queens alike in her dust. She seemed a part of her horse, especially as her magnificent slate grey filly was the only horse that didn't shy from the monstrous dire wolf at her side. That filly could run like the wind, Arya bent low over its neck, whispering furiously into her ear, urging the horse faster, faster, until she was gone through the trees, over a hill, fading into the fog. No matter how hard they tried to tame her, there was just too much of the north in Arya Stark. She was a wolf, with Stark blood running through her veins, who could hope to tame her? Who _should_?

The highborn ladies had attempted to befriend her, gain her favour. Mayhaps it was because to be close the Arya Stark was to be close to her half-brother, the King in the South, to her other, younger brother, the King in the North, and to her sister, the Lady of the Vale, wife of the Warden of the East, though to hear some tell it, Sansa was the true ruler of the Vale, as she ruled her husband, and was wiser than him to boot. Even though Sansa technically wasn't _in_ the Vale, and hadn't been for sometime. After she had married the young heir to the Eyrie, Jon Arryn's heir died of his shaking sickness and Littlefinger had fallen to his death through the moon door, Sansa had immediately left to rebuild Winterfell with her young brother, whom she had recently learned was alive. Her husband, now Lord Harrold of the Vale, saw off his new lords and accompanied his beautiful wolf maid wife to her home, and stayed there while she ruled as Regent of the North, until Rickon came of age. Lord Harrold couldn't bear to leave his lady love, and sent a raven naming Yohn Royce as castellan of the Eyrie. Stannis had seen the Boltons out of Winterfell, but left it in ruins. Stannis had bigger things to worry about in the south, such as the Lannisters, and the rumour of a Targaryen in the storm lands. When he tried to take his army south, Wyman Manderly revealed he had Rickon Stark, heir to the Young Wolf, safe and alive in his care, and the northern lords who had joined him after the Bolton's defeat had deserted Stannis. The only way Stannis would survive would be to bend the knee to Tommen, but his pride clouded his judgement, and south he went with less than half an army.

In the beginning, it seemed the Lannisters would triumph over both Aegon and Stannis, but then Arya sailed from Braavos, rode like a demon to the Neck, brought Howland Reed to the Wall, and Jon had come down with the strength of the North at his back while Daenerys Targaryen landed in Dorne with an army of Unsullied and, of course, her dragons, grown to terrifying maturity, and then it was all over for Stannis and the Lannisters alike. Her brothers had decided that the war had driven a wedge between the North and the South, and that it would be wise to govern them as two kings, but as one realm. They were almost one another's Hands, even though custom decreed that each king have a Hand of his own. Jon had taken his newfound brother Aegon as his hand, and Rickon had yet to come into his kingdom, still a child of one-and-ten. Sansa, who was pregnant with her third child, ruled Winterfell as his Regent, had sent Arya south to be the North's representative at court, and to sit on the small council with Jon and his Dragon Queen.

~X~

Gendry had stayed at his little forge at the inn until he heard that the Starks had returned, and that Winterfell was being restored to his former glory. He didn't know why, but the day he heard her family was alive, he knew he had to go to them. His dreams had been haunted the shadow of a girl with grey eyes, a girl who fought like a water dancer and rode like a demon, a girl who he had once felt responsible for. She had fascinated him, this wolf girl, who went against everything he had ever heard of highborn ladies. She wore a sword, dressed as a boy, and had killed more men than most knights. He'd realised she was no lady, but a Stark of the North, a wolf, made for the cold.

And he had lost her. He had taken it upon himself to protect her the night they left Harrenhal, and he had failed, he had failed his little lady.

He had known there would be no place for him Riverrun. Even the blacksmiths in a lord's castle were trueborn.

So he had decided to join the Brotherhood without Banners. There, he could be anyone. A knight, a hero. He didn't have to be a bastard, he could be honourable and noble, and he could finally be proud of himself. He had been knighted the day he'd vowed to join. Ser Gendry. It had a beautiful sound to it. He'd known it would hurt her. He heard her whispering her death prayer at night, knew how much pain she had inside her tiny little body, and he had tried to explain, but by then he knew Arya Stark, and he should have known that she wouldn't just be hurt, she'd be angry. She spat angry words at him, and for a time he'd been hurt, and his pride had been insulted, but then she'd disappeared and all he'd felt was heartbroken.

How could he be a knight, a hero, when he couldn't even protect a skinny little girl? Only she wasn't just a skinny little girl, she was Arya Stark of Winterfell, the Hand's daughter, sister to the Young Wolf, and a princess. He had taken it upon himself to protect her, and now for all he knew she was dead.

He had been inconsolable, hardly ever spoke, unable to sleep, or eat. Lem had tried to cheer him up, and Tom o' Sevenstrings had taken him to a brothel, but all he saw were her grey eyes, hurt and accusing. And all the brothel did was remind him of a different whorehouse, one where he had shoved away a disgusting old drunk who had been slobbering over her, where he had realised she wasn't a child anymore. She wasn't the scrawny little boy she'd been when he first met her, or even the skinny little girl he had realised she truly was. She was, what? One-and-ten? Almost a woman grown. And she was beautiful, too. Arya had the type of beauty that only flowered when the maiden did, and for all he knew Arya was a maiden flowered already. Those big grey eyes, glaring solemnly out at you from her long heart shaped face, framed by her dark hair, above a small nose, and a rosebud mouth. Her skin was milky, white as snow, except where it flamed over her cheeks when she was breathless, or angry, or both, like when they had wrestled in the smithy at Acorn Hall. She had looked pretty then too, his little lady. A proper lady at last, sweet-smelling and dressed in lace. Only she wasn't, not really. She would always be a wolf, through and through.

He had told the drunk that he was her brother, and when Arya had asked him why he had grown angry. He didn't know why, but underneath, deep down, subconsciously, he had begun imagining what it would be like to go with her. To see how his little lady wolf would behave in a castle, among other highborn ladies, wearing dresses every day. When she asked him why he had said he was her brother when he wasn't, his dream came crashing down. He was too bloody lowborn to be kin to m'lady high, and he told her so. He'd been short with her, and she had stalked off angrily, after he'd threatened to go find that black-haired girl who'd offered to entertain him for the night. He didn't go find the girl, he just sat brooding over a cup of wine, wondering how his little lady could make him forget how important his low birth was when really it made their friendship nigh on impossible.

The sight of the man leering at her had woken a roaring lion in his chest, and it surprised him. It surprised him to realise that he hated the thought of someone else being with her, laughing with her, touching her. It surprised him, and made him ashamed. She may be pretty, and wild, and infectious, but she was really just a child, and a highborn child at that. But when she smiled he seemed to forget that, and that smile was only going to get more beautiful.

So he had decided to join the outlaws, and forget her. Let her go to Riverrun, marry some lord, be lady of a castle. He could never give her those things.

And then she'd just disappeared. Gone. Dead, probably. And it hurt. He missed her, and every time he saw an acorn, or a bravo sword, or when a wolf howled at night, it sent a sharp pain through his chest. And even if she somehow she made it to Riverrun, after the Red Wedding it was a death sentence to be a Stark. Either that, or marry into the Lannisters, and he knew Arya would kill herself before she would let that happen. Then he'd heard how they had married her to the Bastard of Bolton, and he knew that she would soon be gone from this world, by her own hand or by Ramsay's, depending on who you asked. Then, Theon Greyjoy and Ramsay's bride escaped Winterfell, and Stannis sent her north to her half-brother on the Wall. She was revealed as an impostor, and Gendry was left to the cruelty of his own imagination once more.

The Brotherhood fell apart after Lord Berric died- _really_ died. Gendry had wandered, and settled at an inn. Then, he had heard Lady Sansa Hardyng, one of the last Starks, was raising Winterfell, and he knew he owed it to the Starks to explain how he had let Arya slip through his fingers.

~X~

He'd arrived at Winterfell one bitterly cold day, when the snow was falling so thick and fast it was hard to see two feet in front of his horse. He honestly didn't know how he made it to Winterfell in that weather, but he did, and when he arrived he saw the castle going up around him. Fresh cut wooden beams, slabs of granite and huge bricks neatly stacked, waiting to be carted to rebuild the ancient seat of the Starks. He had enquired as to when he could have an audience with the lady of the castle, and was told she was hearing the smallfolk at that very moment. He didn't mention he wasn't a lord of a holdfast, just headed in the direction he was pointed.

He was intrigued to see her sister, this sister who Arya had spoken of so, well… Fondly probably wasn't the word, but she was her sister all the time. He had heard of the Lady Sansa's great beauty, but he was expecting a replica of Arya, solemn grey eyes, luscious dark hair and wild grin. This girl was a surprise. She was beautiful, alright, but nothing like Arya. She was younger than Gendry, he put her age at about- What, sixteen? Around that. This girl was nothing like Arya. She was all rich auburn hair, deep blue eyes, and gentle smiles. She sat on the high seat of Winterfell, in the great hall, resplendent in blue and white, the colours of House Arryn, a creamy white cloak clasped at her throat with a direwolf fastening. He went to his knees before her, and began his story.

By the time he was finished, his knees were numb, and his heart was tearing. He glanced up, his eyes stinging, and was shock to see tear-tracks down the lady's smooth white cheeks. Her blue eyes were brimming with tears, and when she spoke her voice quivered.

"Thank you, ser-?"

"Gendry." He had croaked, his throat tight.

She took a deep, calming breath. "I thank you, Ser Gendry, on behalf of my family and House. The thought of my sister has torn at me since we returned here, and you cannot know how much it pleases me to know she was not killed by the Lannisters, or even by a stranger in the city. She was always wild, my sister, and I would not be surprised if she would be capable of aggravating a less gentle man than yourself to violence. We were not always close, but how I regret that now…" Sansa gazed at nothing, in a different place, a different time. Coming back to herself, she turned her eyes to Gendry. "Truly, thank you, ser. You have brought my mind some peace, at least. How might I repay you and yours for this service?"

Gendry was feeling extremely uncomfortable. "My… m'lady, no payment is required. It brings also my mind some peace, to fill in some of the gaps. I- I am sorry not to be able to tell you where she is now."

Sansa shook her head absently. "No matter, good ser. It is most gallant of you to come all this way. House Stark will always be indebted to-" Her brow creased. "My deepest apologies, Ser Gendry, but in my excitement I have forgotten what House you descend of. Would you be so kind as to remind me?" She smiled gently.

Gendry's mouth had been dry. "I…" He cleared his throat. "I have no House, m'lady. I am baseborn, of Kings' Landing."

She did not react. "No matter." She smiled once more. "House Stark will be indebted to only you then. Name anything, good ser, and it is yours."

Gendry was startled. He had not planned anything beyond telling Lady Sansa his tale. "M'lady… I could not…" He fumbled.

She raised an eyebrow. "Come now. I will have an answer out of you."

Suddenly, he knew what to ask. He could not apologise to his little lady, but he could spend his life where she had been happy. "M'lady, if I might be so bold…"

She nodded. "Go on."

"Before I left Kings' Landing and travelled with your sister, I was a blacksmith's apprentice. If you are lacking, I might ask to stay here, and smith for you."

She smiled. She turned to one of the men standing along the edge of the room. "Ser Lothar. Would you be so kind as to show Ser Gendry to the site of the smithy? Introduce him to Willem, so he can specify on how we should proceed to rebuild to smithy."

Gendry smiled. "My thanks, m'lady."

And that was how he had come to smith at Winterfell. Lady Sansa rebuilt the castle exactly as it had been, salvaging as much of the original stone and structure as she could. The castle rose like a ghost under the blizzards and ice storms that came howling down from the Wall. It was northmen who built Winterfell, Sansa said, and it would be northmen who rebuilt it.

She would often come and see him in the forge in the morning time, when the cold white light would filter down from the heavy, snow-laden clouds. She would come to hear tales about Arya, and Gendry was only too happy to tell them. He told her of how she had pretended to be a boy, and Sansa had laughed, saying it sounded like something she would do. He told her of when he had realised she was a girl, of how she fought better than most men; how she fought alongside them when the City Watch men had attacked them. He told her of Harrenhal, how Arya had planned their escape, how she had outwitted the strange man named Jaqen H'gar. He told her of their attempted journey to Riverrun, how they had been intercepted by the Brotherhood. He told her of Acorn Hall, of Stoney Sept and everywhere in between. He particularly liked talking of the day she tried to escape the outlaws, after they found out her true identity, and she realised that they weren't taking them to Riverrun.

"She rode like demon, flying over the ground. How she got that horse to move like that, I'll never know. When Harwin brought her back, he was saying she wasn't just like her aunt Lyanna in looks, but in nature as well." He wiped the sweat from his brow, the heat of the forge buffeting him. He had long since stopped offering to go for a walk round the yard with Lady Sansa while they talked. The cold took root in his bones the first day he suggested it, but since Sansa seemed to enjoy it he felt the need to offer again, and again, mumbling his stories around shaking, frozen lips until Sansa finally said, "Gendry, mayhaps we should go back to the forge." She smiled amusedly. Strangely, Sansa seemed not to feel the cold. Aside from a faint rosy glow in her cheeks, she seemed as comfortable in the snow as in the hall, with its roaring fires and hot pipes from the underground spring running through the walls. Gendry, on the other hand, was shaking violently, teeth chattering, lips blue. "You are of the south." She grinned. "Take no shame in it. The cold is for the north, and its people. Southroners oft find it difficult. You are made for the heat, as we are for the cold."

Gendry smiled embarrassedly. "In truth, I've never felt cold such as this."

Sansa nodded. "In the summer, the snows are milder. Mayhaps you would like it better then."

Gendry couldn't help but laugh. "Summer snows. I never really knew what she meant when she said 'I am a Stark of Winterfell' or 'I am of the north." He shook his head, smiling. "Or even 'winter is coming'. Now I do." He looked up at the sky, surprised to find tears in his eyes. Sansa had given him a funny look, and then they had gone back to the forge.

It was snowing now, but the heat of the forge threw back the cold. Sansa looked just as cool and comfortable as ever, but Gendry was sweating.

"It was like she and the horse were one. The speed, the grace-" He shook his head in amazement. "She took my breath away."

Sansa smiled sadly. "Somehow, I doubt that was the only time she took your breath away."

Gendry froze. Was it that obvious? How much he cared for her? "W- What do you mean, m'lady?"

She sighed. "Gendry, I understand." She laughed humourlessly. "Believe me, I understand. To love someone, and lose them… It is a terrible thing. I lost my family. My mother, my father, my brother Robb, Bran… And then I learned Rickon was alive. I was euphoric." She smiled, remembering. "But when I got over the hysterical happiness, I realised that when someone seems dead, they don't always stay dead. If Rickon was alive… Why not Arya? What did I really know of what happened to her after they arrested my father? She was gone from the Red Keep, and not been seen since, but that did not mean she was dead. Rickon was deader than that, tarred and beheaded. But here he is," She smiled, tears beginning to spill down her face. "Alive. And so is Bran, to hear him tell it. So why not Arya?" She shook her head. "All that time, I worried for Robb, for Mother, for Bran, and Rickon. But I never worried for Arya. As children, we were _so_ different. I look back on my childhood, and I admit I was not as kind as I could have been. And then I think, but that was _child_hood. I was a _child_. And children are as innocent as they are ignorant. I was in love with the songs, and Arya… Arya was in love with life itself. I wanted a magical court full of beautiful lords and ladies, but Arya was happy as she was at Winterfell, riding and exploring, getting dirtier than I could've imagined. Father once put it well. He said that we were as different as the sun and the moon, but that we were the same blood, and needed each other. And he was right. I know that if she were to stride through that door right now and call me a rotten pampered stupid, I would hold her tight and not let go." She wiped her eyes. "And that is why I cry at night when I look out the windows at the moon. Why my heart breaks when I hear Shaggydog howling. Because I think that maybe she's out there somewhere, looking at the same moon and wishing for home. That Nymeria's out there somewhere, howling too." She sighed. "I love Harry with all my heart, but he doesn't understand. He tries, the sweetling, but he hasn't lost anybody. Not the way we have. I know I won't be able to rest until I _know._ If she's alive. Or even if she's dead. If she's down in the crypts with Father, and Grandfather, and Lyanna and all the rest at least she'd be with family. And I could visit her there. This not knowing…" She rested her head in her hands. "It's driving me mad."

Gendry was helpless. He'd never seen calm and collected Lady Sansa Stark lose control like this. He knew he was crying too, for his little grey-eyed lady, and for all the wolves howling in the night.

~X~

It was a bright day. Freezing cold, but bright. He was wearing the furs Sansa had gifted him with, and he was watching Rickon playing at swords in the yard. The castle was almost rebuilt, just the library left to be finished. Another day, another two, and the castle would be rebuilt. Just as it was before, like no time had passed. Sansa had seen to that.

He had little to do at the forge, so he had donned his furs an decided to watch Rickon practice in the yard. It was a year to the day he had arrived at Winterfell, and three years in the restoring of the castle. Three years it had taken to rebuild it, and a thousand years it would stand. Stannis, the Lannisters and even a Targaryen, apparently, were dancing in the south, but that was of no concern to Winterfell and it's inhabitants. To the Starks and their banner men, Rickon was Robb's heir, a Northern King. Since the southroners weren't concerning themselves with the North, the North wasn't concerning themselves with them. Rickon was proclaimed King, Sansa was his Regent, and if Stannis or the Lannisters, or even the dragon boy tried to take the North, they would throw them back at the Neck as the Kings in the North had a thousand times before. The men of the Vale had already sent the krakens fleeing back to their rock, and the north belonged to the Starks again.

He laughed as Rickon disarmed one of the Arryn squires for the fifth time. The boy- he couldn't think of him as a king, not when he'd tickled him and chased him through the corridors of Winterfell- was still just barely nine, but he was defeating boys two and three years his elder. He was his sister's brother, in truth. He had the Tully colouring, but Gendry could see so much of Arya in the young king. It made him sad, but gave him joy at the same time, because this way he had at least a tiny little piece of her. He was cheering as Rickon gave the humiliated twelve-year-old squire a hand up when Sansa came running across the yard, shouting. He face was deathly pale, her eyes wide.

"Gendry! Oh, Gendry!" She yelled. Tears were streaming down her face.

He was alarmed, and felt worry blooming in his chest. Sansa had become something of a friend to him. She was different from Arya, but Gendry found he could get along quite well with her. He had become more of a counsellor than just a blacksmith, and though he could see how it chafed the lords and highborns to see their Regent listen more to a bastard than them, but Sansa and Harry calmed them, and told Gendry not to worry. Gendry had found Harrold Hardyng, Sansa's lord husband, very much to his liking. He was carefree and jolly, with boyish charm and easy smiles. He made Sansa seem to forget her sadness, at least for a time. Gendry had learned that he had at least two bastard children in the Vale, but he tried not to think of that too often. Gendry liked Harry, but he had little respect for men who fathered bastards. He knew what it was to be a bastard; it had been his low birth and his fear of dishonouring Arya by being in her company that had been part of the mistake that led to losing her. He would not wish the things he had felt as a result of being baseborn on anyone.

Sansa fisted her hands in his furs, to look fiercely into his eyes. _She's so tall, I hardly noticed before_. Gendry towered over most men, but Sansa could almost look him in the eyes. "Oh Gendry," She panted. "_She's coming_."

Gendry froze.

Sansa began to regain her breath. "I was right, I _knew it_, I was right_, We_ were right, Gendry, oh, I can't believe it, oh-"

Gendry couldn't breathe. _No, no, it's not possible, not after so long, no, don't, don't get your hopes up, it can't be, it can't be her, no-_

Somehow he was speaking. He heard his voice distantly. "Sansa, what's happened? What's happened?" He had her by the shoulders now, as she had him.

She was crying and laughing at the same time. The other lord's had gathered round, the one's who hadn't gone hunting with Harry. Gendry had decided to stay behind. He had spent most of his time on a horse with Arya, and even the sight of a common garron brought the sight of her crouched low over the graceful neck of her mare, whispering furiously as they fled Harrenhal to his mind.

"A raven came from Jon. She's at the _Wall_, Gendry, she's at the Wall, and she's coming south with him, and with Howland Reed. She took him to see Jon, oh, I don't know why, but they're _coming_, Gendry, and she's _alive_, oh, I can't believe it, oh _Gendry_, she's alive, and she's coming _home_, and I- oh-"

Gendry folded her in a fierce bear hug, and then he was crying and laughing too.

~X~

The next weeks passed excruciatingly slowly. Every second of every minute seemed to snail by. Sansa was a flurry of activity, readying rooms and a feast to welcome Arya and Jon home, but Gendry could not settle to anything. For the first day, he tried to smith as he would normally, but could not concentrate, and burned his forearm while forging a new shield for the master of horse, Harwin, who had appeared at the gate a week or so before Jon's raven came. He had been welcomed, as had all the surviving former occupants of Winterfell had.

After he burned his arm the requests for new armor stopped coming in. They were still a small household, just Sansa, Harry, Rickon, Gendry himself and the twenty or so lords and mounted knights who had not returned to the Vale along with the servants, though their weren't many of them, either. A cook, a few scullery maids, Sansa's handmaids, the stable boys, Harwin, the maids who cleaned the castle and kept the rooms fresh, some cupbearers, serving girls, and of course the builders, though they would soon be gone. They were a close knit household, and he could name most all who resided in the castle. They saw him gazing distractedly into the distance, and most knew the reason he had come to Winterfell in the first place. They saw, and they left him to his brooding.

Gendry couldn't concentrate on anything. All he could think of was her, the last time he had seen her. She had stalked out into the night, and not returned. How they had searched, Gendry the last to give up. She had just disappeared, and it tore at him. She had no horse, she couldn't have gotten far on her own. If she'd tried to run, they would have found her. Someone had taken her. It tore at him.

But now she was back. And he had no idea what to say to her.

Would she blame him? What had happened to her? Where had she been? What would she say to him?

In his daydreams she called him a stupid bull-headed boy and pulled him into her arms, embracing an old friend. In his daydreams, he held her close, and smiled into her grey eyes. In his daydreams, he wasn't a bastard, and she was just his lady wolf.

And then, the long-awaited day arrived. Sansa was restless, fidgeting and wandering the castle from before dawn. Gendry sat in his forge, and thought back on how all it all started. It all started with a shove, and a m'lady, and then he was captivated. By this contradiction of a girl, who went against everything she should be. A highborn lady. A princess. The words brought mind the thought of beauty, of gentleness and sweet words, of courtesies and shy smiles, of pride and dignity. She _was_ beautiful, but gentle and sweet she was not. Proud and dignified, definitely, but loyal, fierce, brave, and good as well. She was fascinating.

And she was alive. And coming here.

What was he going to do?

~X~

They were waiting in the yard. The time had come, but they were still waiting. Soon. Soon.

Sansa had calmed her frantic fidgeting. She stood between Harry and Rickon, with Gendry on Rickon's other side. Gendry had bitten his nails to stubs in the last few hours, and he still picked at his thumb nail using his other fingers, his hands clasped behind his back.

The scents of meat and vegetables and gravy wafted from the kitchens, filling the frigid air of the icy yard with the smells of a feast. They were deceptively delicious, but Gendry's stomach was roiling.

_She's coming_.

They snow had fallen thick and fast the night before, and then it had frozen over it. The paths and stone courtyards of Winterfell were lethal, even well salted, and just a moon past a guard had fallen while ascending the steps to the main wall. He'd broken his leg in three places, and the maester that had come with Sansa and Harry from the Eyrie had been hard-pressed to get enough milk of the poppy into him to keep him comfortable.

_She's alive._

His hands were trembling. Clasped as they were behind his back, no-one could see, but still, trembling they were. Ser Gendry Waters, a burly six and half foot blacksmith was trembling for fear of seeing a tiny little girl.

_She's alive, and she's coming, and I think I'm in love with her._

Maybe that wasn't the right way to put it. He was in love with the memory of her. He hadn't seen her for nigh on four years now. She had been ten then, or was it eleven? She had been beginning to bloom then. A winter rose. That was what they'd called her aunt, Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar's wolfmaid. Everything about Arya was wintry, but a rose she was. Not a Tyrell, those Lannisters disguised in petals, but a winter rose. Lovely, and sharp, and born for the cold. _How she would hate to be compared to a rose_, he thought, smiling, _She was always saying she was a wolf_. She was a wolf too, though. A winter rose with teeth and claws.

_What would she be like? Would she have changed? Would he recognise her?_

Of course he'd recognise her. There was only one Arya Stark, and it would be impossible not to know her.

He looked over nervously at Sansa. She smiled reassuringly.

He was not reassured.

The cry was raised. A watchman on the wall called down.

"The host approaches!" He cried.

Sansa creased her brow, looking at Harry and Gendry in turn. "The host? It should just be Jon and Arya."

Gendry took a deep breath.

He could hear them now. Hoofbeats in the snow. Too many, though. Too many.

They grew louder, and now they could hear cries and shouts. Gendry steadied himself.

She was the first through the gate, as he'd known she would be. She rode a grey filly, and even though Gendry knew little of horses, he could tell there was something special about this mare. Something in the arch of her neck, and the spirited way she picked up her feet and tossed her mane. Something that bespoke something extraordinary. Or maybe it was the way she hardly seemed to notice the monstrous direwolf at her side.

As tall as the horse it was, with feral golden eyes and dark grey fur. She glared round the yard, daring anyone to move against her mistress.

_Nymeria, it has to be- only how did they find each other?_ Arya hadn't often spoken of her direwolf, but when she did he had noticed it was difficult for her. He had learned she had forced the wolf to leave her at the Trident so the Lannister queen wouldn't kill her, but that had been at least six years ago. The wolf had been but a pup then. How had she managed to find her mistress after all these years? _The size of it_.

_Look at her, you must look at her, her face, is it the same, is it-_

Her grey eyes glared out of her hood, as fierce as her wolf. She had drawn the fur lined hood of her cloak up, and her hair was loose but for the top pieces, which were braided along her head in the simple northern style- at least what he could see of it. The rest was free, billowing out of the hood and down her shoulders. The last time he had seen her, her hair had been beginning to grow out, and it looked as though she hadn't cut it since then. Her face was heart-shaped and long, the small nose and rosebud mouth the same as he remembered. He had been right, about her only beginning to bloom back then. How old was she now? Fifteen? And lovelier than he could have imagined. She looked slender as ever underneath the thick white cloak and grey furs- _Stark colours _- but with a woman's shape now.

She slid down from the horse and stood looking at her family, the glare softening out of her eyes. The sun had come out fleetingly, and the icicles frozen to the walls and gargoyles seemed to glitter like a thousand tiny rainbows. The icy stone beneath their feet seemed to glimmer like diamonds, and the light brought out glints of silver in her wintry eyes, making her strands of her hair gleam as red as Sansa's for the moment, as she drew her hood down. She shone, just for a minute, like the sun and moon brought together.

It seemed to last forever that moment, at least to Gendry. She looked with a smile in her eyes at her family, and then the moment broke, as the Starks suddenly ran to each other.

Sansa was crying, Rickon was crying, Arya was crying- had he ever seen her cry before? - and slowly they sank to the ground, clutching each other, as Sansa and Rickon tried to shout over each other.

The rest of the party filtered through the gates. A tall man all in black with Arya's face, hair and eyes smiled at the huddle of them on the ground. He knelt next to them, and enfolded all three in his arms. He looked like a giant, next to the two girls and the little boy. Sansa was possibly the most composed and dignified person he'd ever met, but there she was, sobbing and laughing and holding her sister close to her chest. Rickon was just nine, but the boy seldom cried, and there he was, weeping the same as Sansa, burying his face in Arya's hair.

Her eyes were closed, but the tear tracks glistened on her cheeks just the same. She held her family in her thin arms and smiled, and he could see she was shaking slightly. He'd never seen her look so happy.

Gendry felt slightly out of place, like an outsider looking in on this family that had been used, abused, torn apart and scattered reunite. Well, he supposed he was, really.

Only he wasn't a stranger to her. He had once been her friend. He had once been her protector. He had once lost her, but now she was found again, and he had to speak to her.

The Starks rose, still holding on to one another, as though to let go was to lose each other again. Rickon held the man's hand, and Arya had an arm around his waist and another around Sansa's. The man waved forward a little man who looked uncomfortable on his horse, fidgeting and squirming in the saddle.

He dismounted, and walked towards them. He had dark hair, and mossy green eyes. He was the smallest man Gendry had ever seen, though he'd heard of the Lannister Imp, of course. He was middle-aged and slight, but graceful, and his eyes had a knowing wisdom to them.

"Sansa, Rickon, this is Lord Howland Reed, of Greywater Watch. One of your lords banner men, _Lord Stark_." He said with a wink to Rickon. The boy grinned.

"Or is it Your Grace?" Arya said with a tilt of her head, laughter in her voice. "I've been hearing things about you, little brother." She said, ruffling his hair. "Robb's heir, come to claim his kingdom, hmm?"

Her voice drew a sharp breath from him. He could close his eyes, and they were at Acorn Hall again, and she was calling him a stupid bull-headed boy once more.

The rest of the party flooded into the courtyard, but after it was full still more remained outside. They had been expecting just Arya and Jon- which was must be the man who had joined in the reunion- and maybe a few escorts, but not _this_. There had to be at least two, three hundred mounted knights, and at least half again as many on foot. What was the Lord Commander of the Wall doing with the beginnings of an army?

~X~

They retired to the feast. Gendry was seated next to Jon, who was next to Rickon, who was in the high seat, with Arya on his other side, Sansa next to her with her lord husband, and Howland Reed next to him. Harry had returned as soon as he learned of Jon's raven, and rejoiced at his young wife's happiness. Gendry had tried to catch Arya's eye when they entered the hall, but she didn't look at him.

He felt cold when she smiled at the others and ignored him. Did she not know him? No, it wasn't possible. She had to know him.

Sansa smiled and laughed, Rickon grinned, Jon joked, but to him Arya's smile looked forced. Just a little too sincere, a little jolly to be real. To anyone else who didn't know her as he did, she would look perfect- grey eyes shining in the candle light, her long hair lustrous and glossy, a face with a beautiful smile. Gendry saw through that, and he though Sansa and Jon did too, because he caught them giving her concerned looks, Jon in particular.

Jon Snow, Arya, Sansa and Rickon's half-brother spoke Gendry kindly, but he seemed guarded. Gendry supposed that growing up as a lord's bastard must be just as difficult as growing up as a peasant's one, which was what he guessed he himself was. Harder, even. Learning courtesies and how to behave as lord of a castle only to learn that you can never be one- _that must be hard_, Gendry thought. Jon Snow must be strong behind his walls, if a little solemn. _And Arya loves him, so he must be worth loving_.

Finally, the Starks called a silence. Sansa whispered in Rickon's ear. The nine-year-old set his jaw, and nodded.

"My guests!" He boomed. His voice carried well for a child. "I am most happy to feast you in my halls all night long, but I am afraid Lady Sansa and I have personal celebrating to do with my resurrected sister, Lady Arya," The men roared their approval, and Arya's grin was a true one for once. "And our brother, the Lord Commander. But I invite you to continue to celebrate my sister here, with each other. More wine!" He cried, gesturing with his goblet to the men seated below them. The serving girls scurried to carry more wine from the kitchens. The glass gardens were beginning to grow the food that would sustain Winterfell through the winter, but a shipment of supplies from the still-warm eastern countries had arrived mere days before the party from the Wall had, so they had enough to feast Arya and Jon's escort.

The Starks rose, and Sansa gestured he and Reed come with them. Arya looked steadfastly ahead. Sansa led them to her own study, next to her and Harry's rooms. When the door was safely closed, she whirled and enfolded Arya and Jon in another embrace.

"Oh, sweet sister, brother, how happy I am to have you back," She whispered fiercely. "And know that all these years I thought you dead how I regretted the unkindness I showed both of you as children." She stepped back, still keeping an hand on each of their shoulders. "You'll be pleased to know I'm not half such a spoiled, rotten little brat anymore. Hopefully." She said, grinning.

Her grin faded to be replaced by a steely expression. "But now I need to know. Arya, what happened to you? Gendry here has filled in the beginning of your story, but how did you come to be at the Wall? And Jon… You were even deader than Arya. We heard, even in the Vale… Mutiny, murder… How is this possible?" She shook her head in amazement. "When I got your raven… In your own hand… I could scarce believe it. Was it all lies told by the Lannisters to make the North believe there were no Starks left at all?"

Jon sighed heavily. He had watched Arya as Sansa spoke, but she gave no reaction when Gendry's name was uttered. He could hardly comprehend the crushing disappointment. She did not know him. Did not remember him.

He would have to remind her.

"No, it was true enough, my lady-"

"Sansa, sweet brother." She interrupted. "We are kin."

Jon smiled. "It means much to have kin about me again, especially when I thought you all dead. When the Bolton bride was revealed as a fake, I lost all hope… No matter. Five I thought I had lost, and three stand before me. It is more than I ever hoped for." He grinned affectionately at his siblings, and sat in a comfortable leather armchair. "Now, for the tale. They killed me, true enough, stabbed me with four knives before I passed out." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Well, truth be told, before I died. They threw me over the Wall, and the fall alone should have finished me. They threw Ghost as well, in case he came for vengeance. By then they knew he was no ordinary direwolf." He scratched Ghost's ear. "And then I woke. No wounds, no broken bones, Ghost licking my face and the Wall looming above. I knew it was not possible." The flames of the fire sent flickering shadows over his face. "I woke, and I stood, and I was better than ever before. I could see the path my body had made through the branches of the trees close to the wall, could see the dent in the frozen ground where I'd made impact. I should have been dead." He shook his head. "But I wasn't. I couldn't go back to the Watch. They would kill me again, and I mightn't survive a second attempt. And anyway, the Wall is a mile thick, no one would hear me calling at the gate. The would curse me as a wight, probably, and send flaming arrows down on me. I had no equipment to climb it, no way to bash in the gate, nothing to fight with. I didn't know what to do. Ghost hunted for me, so I did not starve. I was helpless." He looked to Arya.

"The Hound stole me." Arya said quietly. "I walked out of the hall where we'd been staying, and he grabbed me. He intended to take me to Mother and Robb, but we arrived at the Twins just as the Red Wedding was in full swing." Her mouth was hard. "I could hear them screaming, her Grey Wind howling. I tried to run in, but he stopped me, and…" Her voice trailed off. The pain in her eyes stabbed at Gendry. "Well, after that, we ended up separating. He took a wound, and I left him. I ended up in Braavos." She said, picking up the tale. Gendry could listen to her voice all day. If only she would look at him, it would be perfect. He hadn't known what reaction he would get from her, but no reaction at all? _I deserve more than that,_ he thought angrily. "One night, I was sleeping, and I warged into Summer-"

"Warged?" Sansa asked confusedly.

Arya gasped, smacking her forehead. "Oh, I forgot, there's still so much you don't know-"

"Like what?" Rickon piped up.

Arya turned her gaze to him. "You should be in bed, young lord. Usually, you would be sent from this room, but because it concerns you, you will have to stay." She said sternly. Rickon made a face the mention of bed. "Do you ever have dreams? Dreams of being something other than yourself?"

Sansa shook her head, but Rickon's face was very still.

"No," Sansa said, mystified.

"Well, I suppose you wouldn't, Sansa," Jon said sadly.

"Why?" Sansa said sharply.

"You lost Lady." Arya told her gently. "You lost her before you sealed the bond. I dream I'm Nymeria. I ran with a wolf pack at the Trident while I was miles away in Braavos. Jon dreams he's Ghost, and he knows the most about it. Rickon, I'm willing to wager my sword you become Shaggydog when you sleep. Tell me I'm wrong."

"I can't." The boy whispered. Gendry was very confused. What were these Starks talking about? They were all close to their wolves, he knew that, but shape-shifting dreams?

"Jon, you can explain it better than I can." Arya said pleadingly.

Jon sighed. "I travelled with the wildlings for a time beyond the Wall."

Sansa nodded. "That's common knowledge. What of it?"

"While I was with them…" He said slowly, "I learned some things."

"Such as?" Sansa asked. Gendry tore his eyes from Arya to glance at Reed. He said nothing, listening calmly, with none of the surprise he, Sansa and the rest were showing.

"There are people who can form connections with animals, become them, for a time. People like us." He said quietly. Sansa looked dubious. "You can too, Sansa, you'll just have to try and bond with a different animal. Because you lost Lady, who by rights should have been tied to you for life, it will be harder, but you can do it. Once you do, you'll be able to go into any animal, if you try. It's called warging." He looked Arya.

Gendry was entranced by the flickering reflection of the fire in her grey eyes. She looked so serious, but he couldn't stop marvelling at her. If only she would acknowledge him. Just a look. Why wouldn't she? He was growing angry. Did she hate him? If she did, would she just say it? It would put him out of his misery, and then he could start to try to win back her trust. She picked up the story again. "I'd been warging into Nymeria, and some cats around Braavos, though I didn't really know what I was doing. Then, one night, I was thinking of Bran. Missing him. Missing all of you, really… And when I fell asleep, I dreamt. Only it wasn't Nymeria, or even a cat. It was a wolf. I didn't know where, but it was snowing. He went into- into somewhere underground, I'm not sure, it was so confusing, and then… And then…" She took a deep breath. The room was deathly quiet. "There was someone else there. In the wolf. With me." She shook her head. "It was horrible, he was fighting me, I was fighting him, both and neither of us were in control, and then I _heard_ him. Raging at me, cursing at me. I heard him in my mind. And then I heard the wolf's name, and recognised the voice. '_Summer_,' he said. '_Summer, help me, get it out, get it out._" And then I knew who it was. I couldn't get out of the wolf, but I tried communicating with him. It was difficult, the wolf's thoughts were confusing both of us, but eventually I got the message through. And then he was happy, so happy, and so was I." She smiled, and looked at her family. "It was Bran. He's alive, somewhere north of the Wall. He's _learning_ Sansa, learning to be a greenseer. He's with the children of the forest. And he showed me things."

When she saw the incredulous faces around her, she hurriedly said, "I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's _true_, it is. I can prove it."

"No, no, I believe you," Sansa said dazedly. "Only… Only it's so hard to wrap my mind around all of it."

"I know, trust me. Bran had to show me so many things so convince me I wasn't hallucinating. He showed me you, Sansa, and Rickon, praying at the heart tree here, rebuilding Winterfell. He showed me Jon, living in the shadow of the Wall. He sees through the eyes of the _trees_, Sansa, through the weirwoods. He sees through the eyes of every single animal, too…It's amazing." She smiled, but it quickly faded. "He showed me visions. He showed me a blue rose growing in a wall of ice. He showed me a fire-breathing wolf, facing an army of ice warriors with a silver she-dragon at his side. And he showed me the past." She looked at Jon, who nodded, and back to Sansa. "He showed me Winterfell, twenty years ago. He showed me Aunt Lyanna meeting Rhaegar Targaryen in the godswood. He showed me the night she ran away with him. And he showed me a place called the Tower of Joy, through the eyes of a sparrow, and what happened there."

Sansa looked completely lost. "I don't understand. Lyanna and Rhaegar… He abducted her, raped her, and she died because of it. Everyone knows that."

Arya shook her head. "No, Sansa. Everyone _says_ it because Robert said it, and he believed it because he couldn't accept the truth. Lyanna loved Rhaegar. She didn't want to marry Robert." Arya said simply. "They met at the tourney of Harrenhal, and they fell in love. She loved to hear him sing." Arya smiled sadly.

"Harrenhal… The year of the false spring. He crowned her queen of love and beauty. He wasn't supposed to, though." Rickon said.

Arya laughed, and Gendry loved the sound of it. "No, he wasn't supposed to. But he did, because he loved her too. He came to her one night, in Winterfell, after the tourney, and convinced her to come with him. He took her to Dorne, and for a time they were very happy. Then the Starks came to the capital to get her back, only she wasn't there, and…" She trailed off.

"Aerys killed them. Uncle Brandon, and then our grandfather, Rickard." Sansa whispered, shock written on her face as the tale unfolded.

"Yes." Arya said softly. "He did. Lyanna was heartbroken when Rhaegar told her, but it was too late to go back. Even if she could have, she didn't want to. She was pregnant, and she loved Rhaegar too much to go back to Robert. She begged him to stay, but Rhaegar felt too guilty sitting back while Robert warred in his land. So he went to fight him. And he died. Then, Aerys died, Rhaegar's children died, his wife died, his mother and siblings fled… The only Targaryen left in Westeros was inside Lyanna. So three Kingsguard went to her, including Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar's closest friend."

"The Sword of the Morning," Harry murmured.

"Yes," Arya replied. "They protected her, but she saw Father, her brother, arrive, and saw him fighting the men who had become her friends. The men who had tried to console her after Rhaegar's death. The strain of seeing people she cared about fighting each other, and dying, brought on her labour. None of them heard her cry out. The fighting lasted three hours. By the time Father got to her, she'd lost too much blood. She died in his arms, but before that, she made him promise her something."

Sansa's face turned white. Her eyes opened wide, and she raised them to Jon. He looked at the floor. Gendry still didn't understand.

"Jon isn't our brother. At least not by blood," Arya said, looking round the room at each of them, finally meeting Gendry's eyes for a fleeting moment. "He's our cousin. The son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark."

"It's not possible," Sansa whispered into the shocked silence, broken only the howl of the wind and the crackle of the fire. "It's not."

"It is." Arya said quietly. "Bran showed me through the animals. Father went to Starfall, to return Arthur Dayne's sword, Dawn, to his sister. There was a wetnurse there, who he grew to trust. She had cared for Lyanna at the Tower for a time, before Lyanna had forced her to leave for her safety. She agreed to put out a story that she was Lyanna's son's mother, and Father claimed him for his own. I watched him bring the baby north. I watched him name him Jon Snow."

"I never understood how Father could do that to Mother." Sansa said. "He was always so honourable, so noble…" She shook her head, as it to clear it. "It makes sense." She said, clearing her throat. "Keep going. How did you end up at the Wall?"

"Bran showed me something else." Arya said quietly, eyes to the floor. "Old Nan's stories when we were children… They weren't just stories."

Rickon giggled. "What, grumpkins and snarks? They were just silly stories, Arya."

When Arya looked up, her eyes scared Gendry. The silver-speckled grey was as lovely as ever, but her eyes were full of fear. Fear, and apprehension, and a steely resolve that scared him more than the fear there. He'd seen Arya impulsive, scared, happy, mischievous- but he'd never seen her like this. Like she was about to go to battle, only she knew she wouldn't be coming back. He'd never seen her look like she was about to ride off to her death.

"They weren't all stories, sweetling." She stroked his hair. "Some were real." She raised her eyes from her little brother, and squared her narrow shoulders. "The Others are real. And they're coming."

Sansa looked solemnly at her sister, but Gendry half wanted to laugh hysterically. _The Others are bedtime stories. They can't be real. They can't be._ There was something in her eyes that told him she wasn't wrong though. The girl who came back was not the same one he left behind. This girl had seen worse things than she had when he'd last known her.

"He showed me the last time they walked in Westeros." Her voice shook. "I'm not going to tell you what I saw." She fixed them with that terrifyingly steely glare. "Only that they have to be stopped. If you don't believe me, look at Jon's hand."

Jon sighed, and rolled the sleeve of his tunic up. On his hand and across his wrist was an ugly burn scar. Gendry knew enough of fire that it had been a very bad burn. "I got this fighting one. We found a body, beyond the Wall. We took it back to Castle Black- we couldn't understand how he'd died. Sam, my friend, noticed some irregularities, so we brought it back to the maester. That night, it tried to kill the Lord Commander. I got this burning it." He flexed his burnt hand.

"The gods- I don't know which- but the gods apparently don't like them either." Arya said. "There's a _reason_ that there are Targaryens left- Jon and the Dragon Queen, they're meant for something. Jon a warg, her with dragons- fire and ice. The Others burn- dragons breathe flame. Jon and this queen are meant to meet. There's a reason Bran showed me those things. There's a reason we recognised each other at all, and didn't just destroy each other's minds. There's a reason I was in the Free Cities. I know Jon. And now I know her."

"Arya, what are you s-" Sansa began to say.

"It's to stop them. The reason. This war, everything leading up to it- it's been planned. Even Rhaegar and Lyanna- fire and ice. Like Jon and the dragon queen. Men and Others. It's all led to this. We have to fight them."

"Bran told me what to do. The next morning, when I woke, I became Arya Stark again and left the H- where I had been staying." She stumbled, and Gendry's curiosity was roused. "I went exactly where he told me to go- and there she was. This splendid dragon queen, silver hair and violet eyes, just off her docking ship. With a black monster at her side, eating meat pieces out of her hand. Balerion the Black Dread come again, nuzzling this tiny little queen's cheek." She laughed. "It was some sight. There were two other dragons behind her, a green and a cream. Not as big as the black, but still terrifying. I walked up to her, through the crowd that had gathered, and I said what Bran told me to."

"Which was?" Sansa asked.

"That winter is coming, and we will need fire and blood to see us through it. I told her that she was not alone. I told her about Jon. I told her Westeros was ripe for invading. I told her my name. At least, that's what I told her there, with others surrounding us. The next night, we sat through the darkness, talking all night long. I told her the truth. I told her everything. Then I warged back into Summer to contact Bran, and he reached out to her. He showed her, as he showed me. She believed me truly, then." Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back. "I promised her an alliance with House Stark."

Sansa raised her eyebrows. "You did what?" She said sharply.

"For the fight with the Others. We _need_ her, Sansa, don't deny it. The Neck isn't the only way to the North. Old Wyman Manderly may have been able to protect Rickon for a while, but he won't be able to hold the sea against the Tyrells' and the Lannisters' combined strength. At least not for long. We need her help to be rid of them, and we need her to defeat the Others. Well, I suppose we need each other equally to fight them."

Sansa stood, stalked to where Arya had collapsed in a chair. Sansa loomed over her, a fire in her eyes to match her hair. "Arya, you had _no right_-"

Arya leapt to her feet as well, putting her face right next to Sansa's. "No right, Sansa? To gain a powerful ally for _our_ House? One we need?" Her skin flamed over cheekbones, her lips mashed in a hard line. It warmed him a little to see her angry expression was the same, at least. "It's _not_ just about stupid crown anymore, Sansa! These are our lives, the lives of everyone we've ever met, of everyone we _haven't_ met yet, at stake! Forget the past! If we don't do this, we won't have a _future_!"

The two sister's glared at each other, and for a tense moment Gendry considered separating them- he knew only too well how Arya's temper could flare from words to blows, though they'd only been kitten swipes to him. Then, Sansa cracked a smile, and folded her tiny, glaring sister in hug. "How I've missed you, Arya. All these lords are altogether too nice and boring. I need your fire to keep me from going mad."

Arya stood frozen for a moment, before winding her arms around her sister and burying her face in Sansa's shoulder.

Sansa drew back after a few seconds and said, "You're right. We need to show the Lannisters they're not the only ones who can make strong allies. When's she arriving?"

"Three moons, in Dorne. She needs to find a ship large enough to carry the dragons, and another four for her army."

Sansa's eyebrows shot up. "Army?"

Arya grasped Sansa's hands, glee shining in her eyes. "Ten thousand Unsullied, and five thousand Dothraki screamers. _Fifteen thousand warriors_, Sansa."

"Oh," Sansa huffed. "Oh Arya, well _done_." She grinned. The her eyes narrowed. "Only what does she get out of it?"

Arya bit her lip. "Sh- She…" She trailed off, but Sansa held her gaze. "She gets the south. And she gets Jon."

Sansa's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"When the war's over, Jon will rule with her. The Targaryens will restore their dynasty."

"But… Jon, your vows-"

"I should think they released me when they stuck the knife in. And besides, I don't think I was a very good Lord Commander, to be honest. Maybe I'll be better at court." He gave a sad grin. Sansa had told him of Jon's honourable nature. _It would probably have been hard for him to abandon his brothers_, Gendry suspected.

"She's going to legitimize him as a royal prince when she lands. We'll need to make ready before that, though-" Arya said, before Sansa cut her off, flying into the fussy, fidgety mode she'd been in before her sister's arrival.

"Yes, of course, we'll need to send ravens, and open more rooms, and-"

"Sansa, calm yourself," Arya said, catching her sister's arm, who had started towards the door. "I haven't finished my story."

She sat back down, and Sansa followed suit. "When I had everything planned with Daenerys-"

"Daenerys?" Sansa interrupted.

"The dragon queen. Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, and Breaker of Chains. Our newest best friend." Arya winked. "She's really quite lovely, strong and good, too. And beautiful. The most beautiful woman in the world, she's called."

Gendry found that hard to believe, with the way Arya's eyes were shining in the firelight, her face flushed and her lips slightly parted with excitement, but he listened as she continued.

"Once I had secured things with her, I knew I had to go to Jon. So I got the next ship, landed at the Saltpans, and rode to the Neck. On the way, when I made camp one night, I dreamt of Nymeria. She knew I was close. I waited there for a day and a night, and as I was about to give up and leave, she came bounding through the trees. I cannot tell you how happy I was to see her." Arya smiled at her sister, stroking the direwolf that never left her side. "She came with me to the Neck. I met Howland there, waiting for me. Have you ever heard the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, sweet sister?"

Sansa shook her head.

"I'll have to tell it to you sometime. Howland has his own links with the children of the forest. He knew I was coming, knew why, and when I arrived at Greywater Watch he just smiled at me and said: 'You are your aunt's niece in truth, Arya Stark.' And then he rode off, knowing I would follow." She rolled her eyes, and Gendry loved the sarcastic look of the small movement. "He likes to be mysterious, our Howland." She said, grinning at the crannogman. "We scarce slept on the way to the Wall, riding both day and night. We went not to Castle Black, but to the Nightfort. Bran had told me of a gate beneath the ruins, and the words I had to say to pass through it. We found Jon easily, and Howland told him the truth of his parentage. He was there, you see," Arya supplied, when her sister looked confused. "He was with Father at the Tower of Joy. He's known everything, all these years, but he kept Father's secret, because there was a time when Lyanna had once done him a favour, and kept a secret for him. Jon didn't believe him, but I helped him reach out to Summer, and when Bran showed him what he had shown me, Jon knew there was doubt as to what we had to do. And then we rode south, for Winterfell. We stopped at Last Hearth to send a raven, and then continued for home. And here we are."

"And here you are." Sansa repeated softly. "You've done beautifully, Arya. It's time to avenge our family." Her gentle blue eyes hardened, and for a moment she looked startlingly like her sister. "What now?"

"Now, we wait. We gather the lords of the north to us. Jon did Alys Karstark a favour once, she should be able to send us the strength of Karhold. We wait for Daenerys to land, and then we got to war, Sansa."

Something was niggling at the back of Gendry's mind, under the daze of seeing her again. Something- something important, only what was it?

And then he knew.

"Waiting for her to land, you say?" He said, fixing his eyes on Arya.

She froze at the sound of his voice. _She does know me_. His heart was soaring.

Until she levelled a cold, empty gaze at him. "Yes, I do say, ser." Her voice was a icy as her eyes, and suddenly Gendry's soaring heart was cold in his chest.

His mouth was dry. "W- well, m'lady, it's just- just-"

"Spit it out, ser."

Did she hate him? He prayed she did not, for it might kill him. To seven hells with winning back her trust, if she hated him he wouldn't be able to bear it. "She must have already landed, m'lady."

Confusion clouded the icy disdain in her grey eyes. "What do you mean?"

"The Lannisters are fighting both Stannis _and_ a- a Targaryen, m'lady, to hear most tell it. Might your dragon queen have come early?"

Arya's nostrils flared, and she began to pace the room. "No, no, she wouldn't have, we had everything planned perfectly, she wouldn't have-" She raised her burning grey eyes to his. "You're sure of this?"

"Q-quite, m'lady." He stuttered. _Her eyes are so beautiful, and she's speaking to me, at last_-

She stopped her pacing once more, after she had resumed once he'd spoken. "You're sure it's _her_, Daenerys Targaryen?"

"No, it's a _boy_." Rickon yawned.

"What?" Arya whirled on her little brother, where he'd been dozing next to Harry.

Rickon looked startled at the fire in his sister's eyes. "I heard them talking about it. A Targaryen prince is fighting in the stormlands."

Arya knelt in front of him. "Who did you hear this from, sweetling?" She asked him gently.

"The stable boys- the one's who took your horse today."

Arya stood, nodding. "We will see them-"

"Sister, this has been a day of many surprises." Sansa interrupted her. "These stable boys are most like passed out drunk right now. Leave it until the morrow, when their heads are pounding so badly that they will not think to lie. We are all tired. I've had your old rooms readied. Go rest, Arya; you've earned it."

Arya suddenly looked bone-weary, all the fire gone out of her. "You're right, Sansa," She agreed. "I'm exhausted. I haven't slept properly since I stepped off the ship in the Saltpans." She rubbed her hands over her face. "Goodnight, Sansa, Rickon." She dipped her head to Harry. "Goodbrother." Sansa swept Rickon up in her arms, and instructed a guard at the door to show Howland to his rooms. Harry followed her out the door, and suddenly they were alone.

"Arya-" He began.

She silenced his words with a raised hand, and fixed her gaze on him at last.

"Do _not_ call me m'lady." She said in a hard voice, and strode from the room before he could say anything else, leaving him standing alone.

~X~

Gendry didn't sleep that night. The smithy grew cold at night, so Sansa had demanded he take rooms in the castle. He had protested, but it made no difference. Sansa Stark knew how to make things work her way.

His chambers faced the godswood, with large windows and a spacious feel to it . It was a warm room, with a roaring fire and condensation beading on the frozen windows. He was exhausted, and everything in him wanted to sleep, but he could not. He had dragged a chair to face the windows, and sat looking at the cold, high moon, thinking.

She must hate him. She'd never looked at him like that before, not even when she realised he was leaving for the outlaws. Her eyes…

He could hardly bear to think of the look in her eyes. Everything about Arya had a cold edge to it, it was in her blood, but she had this inner fire that glowed outward. Once upon a time, he had believed that that fire had burned brighter when she looked at him. Now when she looked at him, all he saw was cold, empty indifference.

He blamed himself, of course. How could he not? If he had not joined the Brotherhood, Arya wouldn't have been angry, wouldn't have stormed out the way she did. The Hound wouldn't have kidnapped her, and she wouldn't have been missing for _six__years_.

He was _sorry_. She had to know that. He was so, _so_ sorry. The only reason he had come to Winterfell in the first place was to seek some kind of forgiveness, even though she wasn't there to give it. All this time, her loss and the guilt of his mistake had torn at him, and now she had returned he had to make her _understand_ that. They weren't just children anymore. They never were.

They were the children of war, and death had become as familiar as a mother's face to them. Blood had spilled like rain around them, but they had come through it. They had come through too much together for her to hate him now. If she hated him, all their enemies had won, because to hate someone who was once your best friend means you've been broken. And he couldn't let Arya Stark be broken.

He'd been half dosing in his chair, still looking out the window when he saw her. A slight figure in a black cloak, creeping into the godswood under the cover of darkness. It could be no one else. No one moved like she did.

She had disappeared into the shadows for a few seconds before he made up his mind. He had to speak to her, to convince her. He got to his feet, tugged on a tunic and crept out of the room.

The castle was silent, not a soul awake. The candles had burned down to stubs in the feast hall, the few men who had fallen asleep before they could stumble to their rooms lying sprawled over benches. He crept past them, and made his way to the godswood.

He had stayed away from this place since coming to Winterfell. The old gods were not his gods. He didn't even know if he _had_ any gods. The north was a hard place, so he guessed its gods were even harder. He didn't think they would welcome the boy who had lost one of the last Starks, a true northerner.

But she had come here, so he had followed. He would follow her anywhere.

The trees loomed high and dark above him, forbidding and shadowy. The snow lay thick on the ground, but with the branches blocking the moonlight he could hardly see her tracks.

Eventually, after much turning about and circling, he glimpsed her through the trees, kneeling in front of the pool, behind which the weirwood loomed. The cloak pooled about her slender form. Her head was bowed, the finally unhindered moonlight shining on the unbound hair spilling down her back.

He stayed in the shadows, watching her. _Just for a moment_, he thought, gathering his courage. He laughed silently at himself. _Afraid of this slip of a girl. Isn't that masculine._ He _was_ afraid of her, though. Afraid of what would happen if he couldn't remind her of what they used to be, of who they used to be.

They had been friends once. And he needed her friendship.

He was taking a deep breath to steady himself when her voice broke the silence.

"What are you doing?"

The way it cracked like a whip startled him, and he lost his footing on the icy roots of the tree he'd been standing on. He slipped backwards, whacked his head on the frozen bark of the tree, and hit the ground with a _whumpf_ of breath.

She laughed spitefully. "Always were clumsy, weren't you?"

"Arya, I-"

Her shoulders sagged. "I can't, Gendry. I can't talk to you."

He scrambled to his feet, furrowing his brow angrily. "Are you talking to someone else?"

"Obviously not." She said tiredly.

"Then you can talk to me, _m'lady_." He said angrily. This cold, empty way she acted towards him, he couldn't take it. She had to care, he had to _make_ her care, the girl he'd once known couldn't be _gone_. Where was the anger, the sarcasm? He'd give anything for her to call him a stupid bull-headed boy again, and she'd usually done that when she was angry. So he'd make her angry.

Her head jerked up at his old pet name for her. She glared over her shoulder at him. "I _told_ you _not_ to call me that. You really are stupider than I thought." She ground her teeth, her jaw tight. "Just _go away_, Gendry. Leave me alone.

"No." _I can't._ "You have to talk to me _sometime_, Arya." _Please._

She leapt to her feet. "_Why_? _Why_ should I? What right do you have to speak to me?"

_She's learned what the word 'bastard' means,_ he thought angrily, though it was laced with hurt. But he had to keep riling her. "What, I'm too bloody lowborn to speak to m'lady high?" His words echoed a different night, a different place, a different argument.

"_No_, you stupid boy, you can't talk to me because you _left _me!" As she shrieked at him, she made to dart past him, but he caught her arm, shocked by the tear tracks on her face. Why was she crying over _him_?

"I _left_ you?" He asked incredulously. He had been _going_ to leave her, but only because he was afraid of hurting her, hurting her reputation. "They Hound _kidnapped_ you! How did I leave you? For all I knew, _you_ had left _me_! You could've run away, like when you tried to escape Harwin when you realised they weren't taking us to Riverrun. In fact, you _already_ left me, when you ran then!" He said, trying to keep hold of her as she scrabbled and tried to shake him off. "Why are you crying, you stupid little girl?"

"I'm _not _crying!" She said fiercely. He laughed, grunting when she swung an elbow into his ribs, but keeping a grip on her arm. "And I'm _not_ a stupid little girl! Not anymore!"

"What do you mean by that?" He said, bending and wrapping his arms around her from behind. He tried not to savour the feeling too much as he straightened, lifting her. Her feet dangled a good two feet off the ground. _She really hasn't grown at all_. Well, she had grown in other places; he tried to ignore the swell of her chest under his arm.

She bucked and kicked, scratching his arms as he carried her past the pool. He thought about dropping her in, but then realised that it would probably give her another reason not to talk to him.

He dropped her in the corner of a thicket of trees, where she was penned in, a V of three oaks growing too close together for even her to slip between them. He stood in front of her, blocking off escape. She glared up at him, roughly rubbing her wet cheeks.

"Just let me go!" She said through gritted teeth. "Seven hells, Gendry, just leave me alone!"

"I can't." He said resolutely. "Not until you tell me why you seem to hate me so much." If she told him, maybe he'd be able to apologise. He owed her that much, at least.

She stayed silent, glaring sullenly at the ground.

"Well, guess I'll just have to talk," He said, studying her. Her bottom lip jutted out stubbornly, the way it used to. Her fists were balled up, and that little crinkle was between her eyebrows. He hated himself for making her cry, but at least it had gotten some _feeling_ out of her.

He knelt, and brushed away the tears on her cheeks. He expected her to swipe him away, but she just looked at the ground.

"Why are you crying?" He whispered.

She was quiet for such a long time he feared she wasn't going to answer.

"Because it's not fair." She whispered.

"What's not fair?" He asked.

"That you're here." She said, raising her eyes to his own. They were brimming over with tears, and her slender shoulders were shaking with sobs. She buried her face in his shoulder and cried.

Suddenly he felt the same fear and uncertainty he'd felt when he first learned she was a highborn. She'd never cried before- well, before today, and he was fairly certain those had been tears of joy- and he didn't know how to comfort her. When they'd been on the run, they'd traded insults, not cuddles.

Awkwardly, he put his arms around her. Arya only let herself be held for a few seconds before she disengaged herself. He looked at her tenderly, expecting the tearful girl she'd been five seconds ago. What he got was furious grey eyes, and a small but strong fist slamming into his face.

He dropped onto his backside, hands flying to his mouth, where he tasted blood. He saw the beginnings of a sunrise through the bright spots of colour clouding his eyes, and heard her soft footfalls as she fled the godswood.

~X~

When he woke in the morning, his split lip was scabbed over, and a magnificent bruise was blooming on his cheek.

_She can hit hard for such a little thing_. She'd hardly grown an inch in height, but she'd certainly learned to hit harder.

He looked at the clothes he'd worn last night. The cloak and to the knees of his breeches were soaked and dirt-spattered, his boots caked in frozen mud and dead leaves. He was at a loss how he was to explain how they'd gotten them so dirty to the manservant Sansa had insisted wash his clothes.

Deciding to cross that bridge when he came to it, he pulled on clean garb and his spare boots, and went down to breakfast.

When Sansa exclaimed over his face, he'd said had a nightmare and fell out of bed, hitting his mouth and cheek on his side table in the process. He took Harry's teasing with a smile, and sat down. He would not give up her secret. She avoided his eyes, and he sighed into his porridge.

Suddenly Rickon piped up. "What did you have a nightmare about, Gendry?"

He blanched, looking at the little boy. His eyes had dark shadows under them from his late night, and his hair was messy, like he'd tossed and turned sleeplessly.

"Um, I dreamt about- about-" Suddenly, the right words came to him. "I was in the woods. There was a she-wolf there. She was crying." He said, stealing a glance at Arya. She had gone very still, eyes down to the half-full bowl in front of her, spoon grasped so tight her knuckles were white. There were shadows under her eyes too, but her hair was in a smooth braid down her back. He suspected that was the work of the handmaidens Sansa had instructed to serve her, though.

"A direwolf?" Rickon said, drawing his eyes back to the boy.

"Yes." He said. "I tried to stroke her and comfort her, but she turned around and bit my face."

Rickon laughed. "You don't stroke a direwolf unless it _lets_ you!"

Gendry smiled wryly. "I've learned that."

"Did it look like Shaggydog?" He asked eagerly.

"No, not really." Gendry replied. The boy looked disappointed.

"Shaggydog'd bite someone's face if I told him to." He said, puffing out his chest.

"I'm sure he would." Gendry agreed placidly.

Rickon went back to his food for a minute or two. Then-

"Did it look like Nymeria?" He asked curiously.

Gendry looked at the huge direwolf accepting morsels of sausage from Arya's fingers. He was startled to see they were trembling slightly.

"Yes, she did, some." He answered neutrally.

"Did it have yellow eyes like her?" The boy asked, his eagerness back.

"No," Gendry said softly, turning back to face Rickon. "Her eyes were grey."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Heyah! LOVED the all of the reviews, never expected any, let alone such lovely ones! Thank you so much :D This chapter is a _lot_ shorter than the first, but I wanted to upload soon enough after the first upload, and I don't want any of it to feel forced, so I figured I'd put this up as it is, instead of tacking on silly stuff at the end :L this doesn't have very much Gendrya in it ( :( ) but hopefully the next chapter will make up for that _and_ the length :)

**Disclaimer: George RR Martin rules the world ^-^**

Over the next weeks, Sansa sent her ravens and the lords of the north came. Umber, Flint, Mormont, Hornwood, Glover, Tallhart. Alys Karstark arrived when she heard that Jon was the one calling, riding into the yard with a cry of: "So the crow finally flew down from the Wall! I hear you're not a crow at all now, but a dragon? There's a change Oldtown would be interested in!"

They brought their armies, too. Winterfell, which had been empty and quiet before, now bustled with movement and rang with shouts and cries. These men burned to avenge their homeland, and at last there was a Stark in Winterfell to lead them.

Three Starks, now. Rickon was a child, but Sansa and Arya together made a better commander than any man, in Gendry's opinion. Sansa, with her gentle courtesy and soft beauty drew their love like moths to a flame, but it was her intelligence and sharp mind he knew to be her true strength. These lords had tried to overpower her, take command, thinking that a woman couldn't command an army. Sansa drew them in, and before they knew it the were in love with her, and half in love with her husband, the Young Eagle.

And then there was Arya, their resurrected princess- _yes, she's a princess now _-returned from the dead. They had been wary of Arya in the beginning, because they thought her a stranger. Then, within spending a minute with her the ones who had known Brandon and Lyanna and, of course, her lord father, embraced her as their wolf princess, and the others, the heirs to the lords who had died at the Red Wedding, quickly followed suit. Where Sansa was outwardly soft and gentle, Arya was sharp, and strong. It was said Sansa had the Tully beauty, but Arya was another Lyanna. Beautiful, and willful, and with everything inside her of the north.

She sparred in the yard with the knights, using a slim, blunted tourney blade similar to Needle, which she'd used when he'd first met her. She still had it, sharp enough to shave peach fuzz with, but for practice real blades weren't required. The men were horrified, refusing to fight her. She called them cravens, demanding they demonstrate their skill with a blade, saying if they were to fight for her brothers she had to make sure they could fight at all.

Reluctantly giving in, the lucky first man circled warily around the slight figure that was his princess.

Arya stood sideface, bending her knees slightly. She was wearing the armour she'd been wearing under her cloak when she first came home. It was new, the steel enamelled in silver and white, made to the exact fit of her slender figure. There was a helm to match, in the shape of a direwolf's snarling head. He'd overhead her telling Sansa that the dragon queen had gifted her with it after they'd agreed to ally. From the other conversations he'd overheard, Arya and this Daenerys Stormborn seemed quite close. More than just members of allied Houses. Friends.

The only way he heard her voice was by 'overhearing'. If she still went to the godswood, it wasn't when he could see her enter. He'd sat up all through the night for the first few days after the night she had cried, and then punched him, but she didn't appear again. He gave up when people began asking him if he had trouble sleeping, and the maester offered him a sleeping potion. Regretfully, he looked out his window, and lay down to sleep. She featured in his dreams every night. They way she looked now, those big grey eyes and the smooth skin, either in the nightgown she'd worn in the godswood, or the armour that glittered so beautifully when the sunlight hit it just right. And the way she looked when they'd been with Yoren, short-haired and dirty-faced and skinny and so, _so_ brave.

She'd been the best fighter he'd ever seen then, and he was curious to see if she was as good as sewing with her special Needle now as she'd when they'd been heading to the Wall. The man circled her, but she stood still, graceful even when not moving. This was the only time she beat Sansa in grace. Most times she was slightly awkward, shoulders just that little bit hunched, the defensive stance so discreet you wouldn't notice unless you really knew her.

The man was a good head taller than her, not as big as Gendry, but still, he dwarfed the little wolf- as everyone dwarfed her. He was wiry, flat muscled and lithe, clad in mail and boiled leather. Arya's plate would be heavier, more cumbersome.

The man stopped after circling her three times. Her head was bare, the wolf helm clasped tight in Rickon's arms where he was watching. He had looked worried; Gendry laughed, thinking it was her opponent who needed worrying about.

Her grey eyes followed him, watching the man expressionlessly. He sighed, obviously realising she wasn't going to make the first move.

Suddenly, he darted towards her, going right, aiming high- but no, it was a feint, and he switched at the last second to go low, for her hip.

Only Arya was ready for him. She slid fluidly aside, slamming the flat of her sword on the nape of his momentarily exposed neck as he stumbled.

"Dead." She said.

He regained his footing, spinning back around to face her, but Arya's sword slammed across his chest. Before it even had even left his hauberk she spun behind him, kicking the back of his knees to send him staggering. As he went down, she grabbed hold of his hair, yanking his head, and Needle was at his throat in a heartbeat.

"Dead and dead again." She said, smiling. He loved to see her smile, even if it wasn't at him.

She released her hold on him, and he got to his feet hurriedly, panting. Gendry could see the man's severely bruised pride in his eyes, but he kept his courtesies.

"My lady," He panted. "If we had an army like you, this war would be won."

"You are kind, good ser. But since there is only one of me, and I doubt my sister will let me fight anyway, it seems we will just have to train, and train, and train, until lions fear the very howling of wolves."

He dipped his head, and walked back to his friends, to the jeers of the men around him.

"Oh?" Arya asked, an innocent look in her eyes. "Is something amiss?" The men shifted uncomfortably, still laughing.

"Well, m'lady, losing to a woman don't seem too good to me, even one such as yourself." One grinned, leering. He was shorter than the other man, but broader, muscled thickly.

"What is your name, good ser?" She asked him.

"Torrec, of House Redling, sworn to the Umbers."

"Well, Torrec of House Redling, I'm sure Tommen and Stannis have men who can fight such as myself. Mayhaps you should pay more attention to technique and skill than what gender your opponent is. They will kill you all the same." She said, an eyebrow raised.

The man's face darkened. His mouth tight, he said, "Pardon, m'lady." Gendry wondered if it was just him who wasn't allowed to call her m'lady.

"No matter." Arya said, pacing from left to right. "You will learn soon enough." She gestured impatiently, a quick flick of her small fingers. "You're next."

"No, m'lady, it wouldn't be proper. If I hurt the sister to my king, my head would surely end on a spike!" He blustered.

She grinned slyly. "You have my word, no injury you could do me would have such harsh repercussions." She waved him forward again.

Reluctantly, the man came forward. He seemed determined not to make his predecessor's mistake, and waited for her to strike first.

She rolled her eyes, and slid into her fluid stance. When he still refused to attack, she began to circle him. They rotated round each other, the man warily watching her every move.

Quick as lightening, she darted forwards, striking him on the thigh, spinning behind him before he could retaliate. He whirled, but she blocked his high cut and slammed the blade down on his shoulder in a blow that would've opened him to his collarbone if they'd been using real swords instead of tourney ones.

"Dead." She smiled.

The man's eyes darkened with fury as she grinned wolfishly. He came at her hard, raining blows down upon her. She danced back, always out of reach, grinning the word 'dead' every time she landed a blow, and his face got angrier and angrier. Finally, he let out a roar as she slipped around him, spinning away from a powerful blow aimed at her side.

The beast in Gendry's chest snarled. His throat was tight, and he found himself imaging what he would do to him if the animal so much as touched her. _What are you doing, you _know_ she can take care of herself, doesn't the fact she's kept herself alive after all this time make it obvious_?

Finally, with a flick of her wrist she sent his sword spinning through the air. With a roar, he hurtled towards her. Gendry thought he saw a flash of fear in her eyes, before they got that steely look and she raised her blade to block his fists. Gendry began to bound towards them, fury and an overwhelming urge to protect his little wolf burning in his chest. But before he had gone so much as three steps, something gigantic bowled him over as if he weighed nothing.

Nymeria came out of nowhere, a huge grey blur hurtling past her mistress. She tossed the man over like a ragdoll, and stood over him, snarling into his face. The direwolf glared menacingly out of her golden eyes, snapping ferociously at his face, and Gendry saw a dark stain spreading along the man's breeches.

Arya's voice cracked like a whip. "_Nymeria_!"

The direwolf snapped at the man's eyes one last time, and stalked back to her mistress. Arya fisted her hand in the direwolf's fur. The gigantic wolf loomed over her, dipping her head to press her nose against Arya's cheek.

"And that is why you shouldn't differentiate between your enemies, good ser." She said shakily, scratching her direwolf's ear. Nymeria growled threateningly, eyeing the man angrily. "They will kill you just the same. My wolf is as female as I am, and she would rip out a man's throat at my command. Expect the unexpected."

~X~

Gendry felt lost in this conversation. It was less than a month and a half until the dragon queen landed in Dorne, and it was time for the Starks to begin planning.

Rickon sat at the head of the head of the table, with Sansa on his right and Arya on his left. Harry sat next to his wife, and Gendry was seated next to him. He'd thought of sitting next to Arya, but didn't see the point as he knew she wouldn't look at him, so he had watched Howland Reed settle himself next to her. He burned to make her understand, to show her how _sorry_ he was, only he didn't know how.

The lords of the north filtered down the table. Sansa was regaled in finery, in a deep blue silk gown that set off her eyes, the bodice slashed to the waist, the deep vee covered with fine Myrish lace dyed burnt red, garnets adorning the neck and bodice. Her hair was loose, but for the two pieces that were braided along the top of her head, glowing like fire in the candlelight.

Arya's hair was styled the same way, but the gown Sansa had struggled to cajole her into had none of the soft womanliness Sansa's had. Arya sat in white silk, pearls stitched into the neckline and bodice in soft direwolf designs that seemed to move when the flicker of the candlelight caught them. There was a grey cloak clasped at her throat with a direwolf fastening, lined with white fur. There was snow melting in her hair, and the dove grey lace in the slash of her dress matched her eyes almost exactly. Nymeria stood at her shoulder, lazily nuzzling her neck.

Sansa had played it very well. It was as though the two Stark girls were representatives of each of their parents' houses. Sansa, a Tully, and Arya, so obviously a Stark, from the wolf at her side to the solemn wintry gaze she fixed them with.

She had dressed them well for their roles as ladies as well. Sansa, who had been wedded and bedded, flaunted her womanliness. The low cut neck of her dress showed off her skin, flawless and white, as well as her breasts. She was barely seventeen, but she looked for all the world a _woman_, knowing and wise and tempting. Gendry observed this objectively, noticing the way the highborns' eyes lingered on Lord Eddard Stark's eldest daughter.

Their eyes were drawn to the younger daughter as well. Sansa had clad Arya in maiden's attire, from the pure colour of the white silk gown to the cloak that bore the Stark colours, if not the sigil. _Best not make it too obvious,_ Gendry thought. Arya's dress showed off her form, but in an honourable way. The bodice of her dress flaunted the skin of her throat and collarbones, but gave only the faintest hint of her chest. The cloak draped over her in the chair, making most of her body a mystery. Gendry could see what Sansa was doing.

She was flaunting Arya's maidenhead. Sansa was advertising that until Rickon came of age and married, Arya was his heir, as well as Harry and Sansa's. Technically, Winterfell would pass to Sansa if Rickon died without leaving issue, but she and Harry already had all of the Vale to worry for. Arya was the heir to the North, and Sansa was making it abundantly clear that her maidenhead was intact, as well as her hand. To marry Arya Stark would be to put yourself in the direct line of succession.

Gendry didn't like it.

And neither did Arya, apparently. She fidgeted in the dress, shifting her weight in the chair, worrying at the pearls with her slim fingers. Sansa had done her best to rid Arya of the hard-earned calluses on her palms, but no matter how much lemon-scented hand cream she massaged into her sister's fingers, it made no difference. Gendry suspected it was because the minute Sansa left her unguarded Arya washed the stuff off and went to do her needlework.

He still surprised himself at how much he had learned about her habits. He had watched her, watched her from the moment he saw her hands tremble that day at breakfast. If her hands shook at the way he managed to keep her secret but not lie to her family at the same time, he guessed it was because mayhaps she realised he wasn't as stupid as he'd been at fifteen. Or maybe he was, and he was over-analysing her every action. Perhaps she had a shaking sickness, and the timing of her trembling was coincidental.

Still, he watched her, quietly observing from his forge, or peeking from behind window drapes. Most days she would rise early, and appear outside the stables before the sun had even cleared the snow-covered hills, clad in men's clothes. It would mostlike be a warm woollen tunic, fur-lined breeches and boots, and of course her Stark cloak. He'd hardly seen her without it, as though if she didn't wear it she'd become Arry, or Weasel, or Nan again. She would saddle her filly, which he had found out was called Visenya, for Aegon the Conqueror's warrior sister-wife. He had realised Arya liked to give her animals strong names. Nymeria, the queen of the Rhoynar with her ten thousand ships, and now Visenya, the Targaryen conquerer-queen who rode a dragon and fought with her very own blade, Darksister. He wondered if sometime in the future a different little girl with scabbed knees and messy hair would name her dog Arya Stark, after a girl who refused to give in. He wondered if songs would be sung of Arya, and her Needle.

She would saddle Visenya herself, and ride out. The guards at the gate had long since stopped questioning her. He watched the trio, girl, horse and direwolf, race through the snows, making the first tracks in an unbroken blanket of white.

Then, after an hour or two, she would return, breathless and flushed. She would hand her filly over to the stable boys, who had gotten over the strange ways of their princess. She would go back inside, and the next time he saw her she would have been struggled into one of the gowns Sansa had commissioned for her, and the tangles the wind had worked into her hair would be gone, replaced by smooth curls and bejewelled hairnets. They were trying to turn her into the lady she was meant to be, and he could see she hated it.

She remained defiant, though. Everyday, around about noontime, she would appear in the training yard, wearing her direwolf armour. She fought each man, and defeated every one. Despite the fact every single soldier was at least twice her size, and three times as strong, not one could touch her. Oh, they tried, courtesies forgotten in the heat of the fight and the clang of steel on steel, but she was too damn quick. She wasn't that strong, but her blows were hard and well-placed, and he could see the men grow to love her. Some might've had doubts about fighting for the sweet, gentle Sansa, who seemed as though she would weep for the death of a fly, let alone be able to brave the dark bloodiness war, but they would fight for their fierce She-Wolf.

She hadn't spoken to Gendry, and hardly looked at him, but there had been times when he had glanced up and caught her staring at him. Her grey eyes would flit away, and she would pretend she hadn't noticed him, but even the little signs that proved she wasn't frozen inside gave him hope.

And now Sansa thought to marry her to one of these men. Or maybe not to marry her; but only to hint at the thought of marriage, to incite Rickon's bannermen to prove their loyalty so they might wed the heir to the North. To have sons that someday might be kings.

With everyday Arya ignored him, he grew a little colder inside. That night, in the godswood- it hadn't gone to plan. He had to put it right, he had to put _them_ right- back to the way they used to be. Only how?

He was sucked back into the conversation by her voice.

"Daenerys has the Dornish strength- they burn to avenge Elia and her children. And-"

"Elia and her _child_." Alys Karstark corrected with a raised eyebrow. "Prince Aegon is alive. Is Her Grace allied with _him_?"

Arya shook her head tiredly. "I don't know. She had no idea he was alive when I left Braavos, but now? Who knows? If she is, it will not do for us to go fighting him only to find out later we're on the _same side_. I need to speak to her. We've sent ravens, but who knows if they're even reaching her?" She cracked her neck, ignoring Sansa's disapproving look. "But it doesn't matter. Not yet." Her eyes burned, glaring round the table at each of them. "Before we go south, the Freys have to answer their debt. It is time the Red Wedding is repaid in kind." She said quietly, her voice low and fierce.

"I agree! It's-" Boomed Glover, but Sansa cut him off.

"The Twins…" She said broodingly. "Robb had to ally with them because he was hurrying south. He thought he could still save our lord father." She looked at Arya. "We have no such rush."

Something passed between the sisters, and Arya nodded, turning back to them with a fierce look in her eyes. It was the strongest emotion she'd displayed since returning. Her face was still and white, like the northern snows, but her eyes burned like grey fire, and her mouth was a thin line.

"We lay siege to the two towers of the Twins."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Hey there! Been a while between uploads, sorry about that :( Just been really busy ! Hopefully you'll be happy to knwo that I've acquired a Tumblr! The url's withfireandblood15, so you can go look at that if you want :) This is longer than chapter two, but shorter than chapter one, so hopefully it's a happy medium :L Also, someone asked if Robb had named Jon his heir- as far as I can remember he'd planned to after his uncle Edmure's wedding, but as we know- GRRM broke my heart with the Frey betrayal :( If there are anymore mistakes, I won't know unless you tell me, because all of my ASOIAF books are on loan to my friends, so please do, and unless they conflict with the storyline I'll fix them :) And since GRRM got tangled in the Meereenese knot, I'm pretty sure I'd end up tying a noose and hanging myself with it, so let's assume that in the three years since aDwD, Dany's figured out what to do, Hizdahr's died, and she somehow found her way to Valyria :L Anyhoo, enjoy, and please review!

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, and GRRM rules my life.**

They began to ready for the march, packing up food and clothes and weapons. In the yard, the knights on their big destriers towered over the servants as they scurried about, looking for this and losing that, never a quiet, still moment. The men from the Vale arrived, and finally Gendry realised what a battle would look like. He had never seen so many warriors, each in shimmering armour, with longswords and greatswords and Valyrian steel, proud and deadly.

With each lordling that arrived, more suitors began to vie for the Lady Arya's hand. Sansa, delighted, began to dress her sister more extravagantly, becoming more daring with the cut of the gowns she wheedled her sister into. A blue silk, baring the tops of Arya's breasts, tight around her slender waist, dagged sleeves falling to the ground, the collar and sleeves and hem lined with Myrish lace, so light it couldn't be worn outside in the cold. A ruby red samite, slashed to the waist, the bodice embroidered with roses, the cosy colour of the red fabric making her skin seem to glow. A dove grey wool, for warmth, but still low cut enough baring her collar bones, the colour setting off her eyes. Sansa could weave a dress out of diamonds, but it made no matter. With each new gown, Arya's face grew more sullen.

And with each new suitor, her eyes grew angrier, her mouth sharper. They picked her flowers from the glass gardens, red roses for her red gown, violets for the blue, small grey silk flowers for the wool, and for her eyes. She accepted them at Sansa's behest, her eyes tight, the muttered courtesies getting less and less pleasant as the days went by.

She still fought in the yard, in her beautiful direwolf armour, and he could see her presence growing in each of the men's hearts, like a talisman against the fear of defeat, against the Lannisters' might.

She was impatient, he could see that too. Eager to be travelling, to get closer to vengeance for her family. Sansa seemed more serene, making sure they had all they needed to travel before setting out. The weather was harsh, heavy snows and blinding bizzards, ice storms that would tear away bare skin with its icy pellets, and Stannis' army had been near buried under the first real snows of winter before they retook Winterfell, so Sansa was intent on preparing for every possible situation. It was unclear who would be staying in Winterfell; each of the three Starks seemed determined to play their part in the coming battles, but, as it was so often said, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, especially after the Greyjoy betrayal. Rickon, of course, would be leading the army, if only as a figure head. At nine, it was impossible to allow him to fight, skilful as he was. The Young Wolf may only have been fifteen, but all agreed that it was madness to have a Wolf Pup in the midst of the chaos of fighting.

That left Arya and Sansa. It would be customary for Sansa, the elder sister, to go south, especially as her husband was Lord of the Eyrie, responsible for half their army, but Gendry could see the challenge in Arya's eyes everyday when she looked at her sister, daring Sansa to command her to stay at Winterfell. The auburn haired girl made no comment, but the men whispered that the little Tully-looking lady would not be able to stomach war as her steely she-wolf sister could.

~X~

One day, when all had been packed and stored and tucked into carts, they set out. After all the waiting for the weather to clear, finally, on a bitterly cold, bright morning, the procession set out from Winterfell. Standards fluttered in the brisk wind, grey direwolf and white sunburst, giant in shattered chains and merman, Stark and Karstark and Umber and Manderly, Mormont, Hornwood, Reed, Glover, Cerwyn and Tallhart. Near ten thousand men, a huge, living mass armed for death. Gendry rode with Harry and Howland Reed, just behind Sansa, Rickon, Jon and Alys Karstark. Arya hurtled ahead, Nymeria by her side, her grey filly flying over the snows. Sansa's forehead was creased, fretting should her sister's horse fall over something buried in the snow. Gendry felt some of her fear, but both girl and horse looked so sure-footed and graceful it seemed folly to even imagine something so clumsy and dangerous befalling them.

As he looked over each of the Starks, he thought back to the night the sisters had argued over who would stay in Winterfell. It had been in the waiting time, waiting for the weather to permit their departure. They had sat late into the night, discussing much and more. As the talk came round to the battles ahead of them, demands to have the honour of battle command were thick and fast. Some were brisk, some were flattering, some came with a jest, and Sansa looked over them coolly before answering that that was an honour that had to be earned, not given so freely as a gift. He could see the affront in the faces of the northern lords at being addressed as such. and by a _woman_ of all people. He had to hold in laughter at that; they had seen Arya's steel, but Sansa's was of a wholly different type.

Gendry could see Sansa take a deep breath before she turned to her little sister. Arya was leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, head tilted to look to the right, through the windows at the cresting moon. Strands were falling out of her elaborately styled hair, and there were smudges of dirt on the blue skirt of her gown. Her face was carefully expressionless, but he could see the frustration in her grey eyes.

"My lady." Sansa said imperiously, formal with her only sister in front of these lords they ruled over.

Arya turned her head to Sansa, her eyebrows raised. "Sister?" Arya did not care what the men thought of her, and that was what made them love her all the more.

"Arya Stark, I would name you lady of Winterfell while Rickon and I march south to avenge our family." Sansa set her mouth, blue eyes proud.

Arya's face fell. She glowered at her sister. "Thank you, Lady Sansa, but it is not an honour I desire." Her voice was cold, eyes colder.

Sansa's own eyes grew hard. "It is not an honour, sister, but a command."

Arya straightened in her chair, trying to seem tall to her ever-taller sister. "A command?" She in that quiet way of hers, a subtle threat in her voice, ice cold anger colouring her simple words.

Sansa's expression softened. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. You know that, Arya."

Arya's face stayed set, a stubborn jut coming to her jaw. "And there would be, Sansa." She stared her sister in the eyes, furious grey meeting cool blue. "If they hadn't almost killed us all. Name one of your Vale lords castellan. I will not sit here while you taste the vengeance we have hungered after for _so _long."

Sansa's soft eyes turned to blue ice. "It is my right as your elder sister-"

Arya leapt to her feet. "Your _right_? I have let you dress me and bathe me and smother me in lemon creams like a doll, I have let you put me in these ridiculous dresses, I have let you brush my hair and string pearls in it like I'm some kind of _stupid_ mermaid, but I will not let you do this! _We_ are going to war with the monsters that tore our family apart. Six years I have thought only of this, six years I have whispered their names at night, reminding myself of _who I am_. It is _all_ that kept me who I am! I didn't know who Arya Stark was! I thought I'd dreamed her. And when I felt that, I reminded myself that I am a _wolf_. I am a Stark of Winterfell, and I will not be commanded!"

Sansa stood, looming over her petite sister. Arya was breathing hard, fists clenched. Sansa's face was determined, but she took her sister's fists in her hands gently. "You're not the only one who had different names. I know what it is hardly know who you are, to not know the difference between who you're told you are and who you actually are. _I understand_. But I need you _here_. Father left, Mother left… and look what happened."

"Yes. _Look what happened._ Look at what they did to us. _Please_, Sansa. I need to go."

"Arya…" Sansa's face looked pained.

Seeing her chance, Arya pressed on. "This is all that's kept me going. I want Cersei Lannister's head just as much as you do. Joffrey Baratheon is dead, but there are others who must pay the blood price. Ilyn Payne. The Kingslayer. Roose Bolton and his bastard. The Freys. Theon Greyjoy, and all is slimy fish friends." When Sansa didn't speak, Arya continued. "And besides, Daenerys won't know you. Any of you." She said, turning her eyes over the others present. "She has been betrayed before. She won't know whether to trust you or take your heads- _without me_. You _need_ me, Sansa."

For a moment all was silent, and then Sansa spoke, her face sad. "I know I do." She said quietly, and Winterfell was to be placed in the care of Harry's steward.

Rickon's bubbly laughter called him back to this moment, riding at the head of a train of thousands of men. Rickon's lords couldn't comprehend why their King and Lady Regent were bringing their bastard-born blacksmith to war, let alone having him sit in on council meetings and riding ahead of _them_, their banner men and highborn to boot. They couldn't openly protest though; Jon was as bastard born as Gendry, even if his parents were lady and a prince- if you believed that, that was, or so they said. The northerners cared nought for southern men and they're Houses, but Jon was as much Stark as he was Targaryen. If you believed he was a dragon, they muttered. A bastard was a bastard, and to insult one would be to insult the man at the head of their army, brother in all but blood to their King.

Shaggydog bounded alongside Nymeria, playfully snapping at his bigger sister. Nymeria had grown huge in her wild time at the Trident, looming over Arya and taller than most men. Her shoulders were huge, and the growls than could emanate from her deep barrel chest was enough to turn brave men's bowels to water.

They rode until dusk, which was coming ever earlier. This winter had been as long as the last one, the men said, near three years, but it seemed to still be only beginning. The days were still getting shorter, not longer, and soon there would be no light at all, the men whispered fearfully.

The clear kept for most of their ride, but it began to snow just as the sun dipped below the white-blanketed hills in a blaze of blood red and purple. They took the snowshoes off their feet, and off the hooves of their horses. Tents were quickly erected, and above the cloth roofs the northerners put up the queerest things Gendry had ever seen. They were wooden boards, held together with iron bands, supported by thick wooden beams. There was a rope hanging down, and that rope was connected well oiled hinge, which when pulled caused the roof to spring up and knock off the snow that settled on the wood. This could be done as many times as needed, to keep the snow from burying the tents, and the army inside them, Sansa explained. Gendry marvelled at the resourcefulness of these queer northerners. If Stannis had had these contraptions, he would've had a deal more men to storm Winterfell with, Lord Umber boomed. His name was Whoresbane, and Gendry didn't want to know why.

He knocked up a rough shelter for his forge beneath the huge wooden roof that housed Sansa and Harry's tent, Rickon's, Arya's and his own tent. Usually, Sansa told him, Rickon would sleep with Sansa and Harry, his guardians, but seeing as he was a King, it would not do to have him seen as a frightened child, unable to sleep alone.

Arya said not a word to him, and strode into her tent, Nymeria at her heels. Sansa looked after her worriedly, and sought out Gendry after dinner, while he was hammering out a dent in one of the men's shields. She came into the little wooden shack he'd quickly put up with the help of a friend called Henry, who cooked for the men. She drew down the hood of her cloak, snow settled on the dark fabric. The heat was blasting from the coals, but a bitter wind rattled the wood, whistling in the gaps.

He stopped beating the red-hot metal, and turned to face her. He wiped a hand over his forehead, sliding over the sweat beaded there. He was embarrassed; he was sour-smelling and his shirt was blackened with soot. He usually tried to keep clean when he was in Sansa's company. She wasn't like her sister; Arya could be found smeared in dirt with rips in the new dresses her sister had made for her, but Sansa was always pristine.

He dipped his head, and grabbed for a scrap of linen to wipe his face. "M'lady."

Sansa smiled wryly. "Sansa, Gendry. You still insist on using courtesies with me."

He nodded, grinning back. "Must speak proper to the Lady Regent of the north, or course.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She perched on the edge of a rough-cut table, the surface covered with hammers and different little trinkets the men had come to request for their sweethearts.

"I have something to ask of you, Gendry." She said quietly, barely audible over the roar of the fire, blue eyes troubled.

He put down the damp linen, frowning. "Anything, Sansa." The auburn-haired girl might be brother to two kings, and queen in all but name, but there was something delicate about Sansa Stark Hardyng, even if she could be fierce when she wanted to. She had given Gendry a home in her castle, comforted him when he despaired over Arya- before she came back, of course. He still despaired over her, but he didn't think that would be something to share with her sister- and had become his friend. He would do her any favour, because she had done so many for him.

She bit her lip. "It's Arya." She whispered.

Gendry stiffened, growing still. "What of her?" He whispered back.

Sansa shook her head, giving something that was half laugh, half sob. "I don't know. There's something wrong, but-" She passed a hand over her face, as if to rub her troubles away. "But I don't know what. She's- she's not herself. She's not the same." When he raised his eyebrows, she hurriedly continued. "I didn't put that right, I know she's not going to be the same as when she was _nine_, but there's something _wrong_ with her." The fire crackled in the silence as Sansa gazed at the flames. "It's like- It's like she's not really here. Like she's only pretending. I'm afraid-" She shuddered. "I'm afraid that when this war's over she'll do something awful. That she'll hurt herself. It's like she's trying so hard to be what she was, or what she _would_ have been if we'd never gone to King's Landing and everything hadn't gone so awfully _wrong_, and when the fighting's over she'll have no reason to pretend anymore. That she'll leave again, or hurt herself or- or-" She sobbed, eyes frightened. "Or she'll kill herself." She raised her eyes to Gendry's. He was cold inside. She was _back_; She was _safe_. She was home. How could anything be wrong? Everything should be perfect, she should be happy.

"I'm afraid of what happened to her over there, Gendry. She won't tell me what happened to her in Braavos. She was there for _four_ years, Gendry. Sometimes, the mask slips and she'll say something so detachedly and her eyes will be so _cold_-" Her breath hitched, and she shook her head again. "It's like she's _died_, but she's still going. And I'm so frightened of what will happen when she doesn't have a reason to keep going anymore."

Gendry didn't speak. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to help her when she wouldn't even talk to him?

Sansa pressed on. "I think you could help her. You knew her when she left King's Landing, which must have been the most confusing time of her life. You were her _friend_. You might know something I don't, say something I won't think of. You could _help_ her, I know you could." She turned pleading eyes on him. "_Please_, Gendry."

He shook his head, overwhelmed. "Sansa- I was her friend once, but I don't know her anymore. She won't speak to me. She won't even care if I try." His thoughts went unwillingly to that night in the godswood, the way she'd sounded so tired when she told him to go away, the way she'd cried.

Sansa shook her head, standing up suddenly and coming closer to him, to stare him in the eyes. "She will. She pretends she doesn't care about you when I ask, but I can see it in her eyes. There's _pain_ in her eyes when I mention you, and she can say you were just a boy she travelled with all she wants, I know you were more to her. Even if you hadn't already told me you were friends, I'd be able to see it. I think you could get through to her in ways I can't. Please, Gendry. Don't make me beg. _Please_." The was such desperation in her blue eyes, tears building up but not spilling over.

He sighed.

~X~

He didn't know how to approach her, to speak to her, and her expression when she caught him looking at her was hardly encouraging. Sansa's pleading blue eyes, however, forced him to at least attempt _something_. He watched her, careful smiles and bright eyes, still the sullen expression when presented with a gift, jesting and joking with Rickon and one of the Cerwyn cousins, whom she seemed to have befriended. The ugly creature in his chest that had reared it's head when she'd been attacked by the Redling oaf growled when he saw her talking to the boy, who seemed to be of an age with her. _A stupid little lordling for a stupid little girl_. He'd promised Sansa though, he thought dully, dreading the next onslaught of blows from that would surely come when he tried speaking with her.

As much as she seemed to like the Cerwyn boy, it was obvious she tired of even him easily. He began to notice her slipping off, Sansa asking round looking for her when she wasn't where she was supposed to be.

One morning, after he'd risen almost ridiculously early, before the sun was even up and the air was so cold it _hurt_ to breathe in, after he'd woken in a cold sweat from nightmare of wolves howling and Arya screaming and something _dark_ behind him clutching at his tunic with cold fingers as he ran, he noticed a slightly deeper piece if darkness fading into the trees, wreathed in mist as the snow glittered in the fading moonlight. Seized by a sudden madness, he decided to follow it, quickly dressing in his warmest clothes.

As he hurried through the dark, already beginning to regret his spur-of-the-moment idea, the stories the men told round the campfires of white walkers, of eating babes and ice spiders the size of hounds, and then the fact that Arya and Jon Snow had _confirmed_ those stories- He was wishing he was safely back in his tent, instead of following something that he'd probably imagined in the first place and trekking through drifts of snow and tripping on hidden, frozen roots and biting his tongue because his teeth were chattering so _hard_-

He pulled up suddenly, a sudden feeling of déjà vu coming over him as he spotted a figure kneeling in the snow ahead of him, cloak spreading over the ground, hair spilling down unbound, gleaming in the moonlight.

He was too far away for her to hear him as she had the night in the godswood, but he crept quickly behind a huge, old oak, wide enough to hide his bulk.

She was crouching on the frozen ground, turning something that glittered in her hands. He couldn't be sure, but it looked as though her cheeks were glittering too, tear-tracks over her skin. He tried to even his breathing, terrified should he destroy the quiet stillness. She was beautiful, as always, but there was something _more_ about her tonight. This was where she belonged, in the snow, surrounded by ice and cold and frosted trees.

She rose, and he backed farther into the shadows, instantly fearing the fury in her grey eyes that he'd become so accustomed to seeing. Thankfully, she seemed not to notice him, passing hardly two feet from where he hid, holding his breath. Her eyes were clouded over, her expression wistful and sad, and she was still clenching something in her hand, but he couldn't see it, the folds of her grey cloak hiding her small fist and whatever she was holding.

He stayed in the shadow of the tree, hardly daring to move, giving it enough time for her to be safely out of ear shot. Eventually, he slowly crept forward, curiosity getting the better of him, needing to know what she'd been looking at, and why it might've reduced her to tears. He knelt in the snow, mirroring the position he'd seen her in.

It was a patch of roses, but not of any type he'd seen before. During his youth in King's Landing, when the old king was alive and everyone was rich and drunk and happy and fat, the scent of so many flowers would almost block out the stench of unwashed bodies and rotting food and fish that surrounded the city like a damp cloak. Sometimes, Master Mott would send him on an errand to some client or other, and Gendry liked nothing better to look about him on the journey, breathing in the smell of roses and tulips and fried fish. There'd been so many colours; red and orange and yellow and purple, pink dresses and blue tunics and bright enamelled steel, all the colours of the rainbow. Then Master Mott had sent him away, to join the Night's Watch, and he hadn't seen as many colours since, just the green and brown of the country side. He had been bitterly disappointed at first; he could've lived well as a smith in King's Landing, especially as he'd been apprenticed to Master Tobho Mott, a popular smith among the court of King Robert. Then he'd met Arya, or Arry, as she'd gone by then, and he hadn't minded so much, the grey of her eyes making up for any missing colour.

In all his time in King's Landing, he'd never seen a flower like this. The rose was blooming when no other should, in the middle of winter, growing out of soil frozen solid. The petals were pale blue, and covered in frost -_that's what was glittering-_ the stem slender, the petals full and graceful.

_I thought she didn't like flowers_. Her expression was sour enough that every time she was presented with flowers from her suitors he could hardly keep from laughing. But hadn't Sansa told him a story once, of Arya picking flowers and giving them to their father, and then getting a rash all over her arms? _Maybe she just doesn't like _getting_ flowers. Or maybe its that she doesn't like getting them from _those_ idiots_.

What flower blooms in winter, though? Covered in frost, growing out of icy ground.

_A winter rose_, he thought suddenly. The northerners talked about them often enough; they were very rare, and very beautiful, and bloomed only in winter. Wasn't Arya's aunt Lyanna famous for liking them? _Maybe Arya likes them, too._

Struck by a sudden thought, he crouched closer over them, breath huffing in an icy cloud. He picked the flowers quickly, gathering a big bunch, careful to avoid the thorns even though he was wearing thick, sheepskin gloves. He stood, tugging his hood up to block out the cold, holding the pale blue blooms in his right hand. He trudged through the trees hurrying back to camp before everyone was up and about. The sky was dove grey, beginning to hint at pink on the horizon when he stumbled through the trees, tripping over a buried rock. Cursing, he kept his weight off his left foot, toe throbbing painfully. He cast his eyes around her tent, the dark canvas shadowed under its wooden roof. Sansa's maids were already bustling about in, readying their charge. One was warming water over a fire, passing the steaming buckets into the tent, helping another girl to carry out a copper tub. When she exited again, scooping more snow in her buckets to melt for her lady's broth, Gendry hurried forwards, drawing his hood forward more to shadow his face.

"Give these to Lady Arya, if you'd be so kind." He said quietly, holding out the roses. "Mind the thorns."

She took them with a curious look on her face. "And who will I tell her they're from, m'lord?"

He chuckled. "I'm no lord. And tell her they're from-…" He thought for a second. "An admirer. Tell her they're from an admirer." _How she hates her admirers._

The girl curtsied, and smiled as he hurried away. He ducked into his forge, peeking round the edge of the wooden wall, waiting.

It took less than a minute before she stuck her head out, mouth tight and eyes burning. She looked round her, eyes searching. She strode out of the tent, the roses clutched in her hands. He shrunk back behind the wall more. She looked down at the flowers, and then glanced round her one more time, eyes wary. She huffed out a breath, and then turned on her heel and marched back into the tent.

He smiled. _She's exactly like the roses,_ he thought, _beautiful, but with thorns._

~X~

_Arya_

She waved away the gown the handmaidens Sansa had given -_given, like I had a choice-_ held up to her. She clambered from the tub, missing the hot water as the cold air hit her, despite the fire burning in the corner. They wrapped her in thick towels, and she stood as they dried her, combing scents into her hair and rubbing Sansa's lemon cream into her skin. _Ease out of it_, she sighed inwardly. _First the dresses, then the lemon stuff, and then the stupid perfume. _Sansa had been so happy to have her sister back, but she seemed to have entirely forgotten who Arya _was_.

_She's forgotten worse than I have,_ she thought dully, as the girl called Bette braided her hair. _Dresses and pearls and flowers and perfumes. _She hardly knew who Arya Stark had been, but she knew she had never been this person.

_I'm trying, though_, she thought fiercely. _I'm trying to be the way I was._ No more dresses, not anymore. They were away from Winterfell, so Sansa couldn't ask her to wear dresses anymore, not when they were travelling. _Tunics and breeches and riding leathers and cloaks from now on._ She stood, and the maids fluttered about like stupid little birds, reaching for hairnets and earrings and necklaces stupid, stupid dresses.

One came towards her with a corset, but Arya stopped her with a hand, a determined look on her face. "No. I won't be needing that today."

"But m'l-" She begins, a confused look on her face.

"No, thank you." Arya said, more firmly this time. "In fact, I won't be needing you any longer."

She looked surprised, but curtsied. "As m'lady commands."

Arya stiffened, but the maids hardly seemed to notice as the others scurried to tidy the tent. _Even other people saying the stupid words annoy me now,_ she thought bitterly. _He's wrecked everything._

It wasn't supposed to _be_ like this. She was supposed to come home in a blaze of glory, to her sister and brother, and then they would get their vengeance, her death prayer would be answered. She hadn't really thought past that, though, but it didn't matter anyway. Everything was _wrong_. _He _was here, and Sansa kept asking her questions about Braavos, and Bran wouldn't come down from the Wall, and Sansa kept making her wear dresses and jewellery and she had to talk to those stupid boys. Some weren't even _boys_; some were old, older than her father'd been.

She hated the flowers, hated all the gifts they kept giving her. Pendants and necklaces and fastenings for her cloak. She didn't _want_ any other cloak fastening than the direwolf Dany'd had made for her.

Dany. How Arya _missed_ the little queen. Before she'd set sail for home, when she was spending the weeks convincing Daenerys to use her dragons for the Wall after the war, somehow they'd become friends. Arya hadn't expected to like the dragon-lady Bran had shown her; she seemed altogether too beautiful. She thought Daenerys would be another Sansa, perfumed and gowned and bejewelled. But Dany stepped off her ship wearing Dothraki leathers and sandsilk trousers. She had gowns, yes, but she was keeping them for Westeros.

"I'm going to enjoy my freedom while I have it." She'd told Arya one afternoon, when they were sitting in Illyrio Mopatis's mance. Arya didn't like the hugely fat man, and he seemed awfully familiar, especially his silly beard, but that's where Dany was staying and Arya had to stay with her. She'd travelled to Pentos to meet the little queen, and she'd insisted Arya take rooms in the mance.

"I learned in Meereen that to be the queen of the people you have to _look_ like the people, _act _like the people. I bent to the people's wishes in Slaver's Bay." She'd said quietly, violet eyes far away. "I learned my lesson, and I won't be doing so again." She said, watching Drogon circle through the sky.

Arya remembered saying goodbye to the queen. She'd been about to board the ship, all the things Dany had given her safely stowed away. To go from have just Needle and the black and white tunic the kindly man had given her to having her new armour and her new clothes and her direwolf fastenings was surreal. When Daenerys had given those to her she couldn't speak for a moment. It made it all real. She was going _home_.

Leaving the House of Black and White to go find Daenerys had been strange. She'd gotten up one morning, and when the kindly man asked her who she was, she finally spoke the truth.

"I'm no longer no one." She'd said, squaring her jaw. "I am Arya, of House Stark.

"There is no place for Arya of House Stark here." He'd said sadly.

"I know." She'd nodded. "But she does have a place somewhere."

He'd led her down to the faces room, and taken the face she'd worn for the last few months off. She hadn't seen her own face in near three years, and was apprehensive about what she'd see in the mirror.

She looked the same. The same, but different. Her face was still long, her eyes still grey, her hair still brown. Her hair was longer, though, right down her back, and her eyes were bigger, her face not quite as horsey. She wasn't tall, still as short and skinny as ever. Her body _had_ changed, though. She'd gotten her moonblood when she was twelve, and the waif had helped her with it. She wasn't as flat-chested, and her hips were wider, her waist narrower. She felt strange. She'd pretended to be someone else for so long she hardly knew herself anymore, and if the face in the mirror had been a stranger she didn't know what she would have done. How could she go to the queen as Arya Stark if she hardly knew who that person was, didn't recognise that face as her own? She _wasn't_ a stranger to herself though; she knew her own face, even if it did look like someone else she'd seen once. She understood it now, what her father'd told her once.

She _did_ look like Lyanna.

Arya almost felt like she'd _known_ the other girl. _My aunt_. Bran had showed her Lyanna's life, how she was wild and fought and rode and wanted so desperately to be a boy. Arya understood. Lyanna had hated dresses and jewels and songs the same way Arya did. Arya had understood her desire for freedom, understood why she didn't want to marry Lord Robert. And then Harrenhal had happened, and Arya had felt _proud_ of her aunt. She had defended Howland Reed, and she had punished those stupid squires for being such bullies.

And then _Rhaegar_ had happened. Arya couldn't help but think he'd ruined everything. Arya knew Lyanna had loved him, but it was his fault that Brandon, who reminded her so of Robb, had died, that Lord Rickard had died, that poor Elia Martell, who'd never done anything bad in her _life,_ had died, and the little children. Arya didn't think she'd ever choose something as stupid as _love_ over her family.

And then Lyanna had died, and Arya had cried even as Bran kept showing her what happened next. The dead blue roses spilling from her hands, the ones Rhaegar had given her the day he left for war, the ones she'd clutched so tight. Arya liked the blue roses; much more than any of the other stupid flowers the other stupid boys had given her because their fathers wanted a princess for a daughter. _Poor Lyanna_. Arya almost _missed_ her, though she'd never even met her. She'd never even gotten the _chance_ to meet her, this girl who she felt so similar to. Arya would've liked to know Lyanna. She risen early that morning on the march, before her maids, to go and search for the winter roses. She had looked for a long time, but finally found a small patch, and knelt to pick one. They were beautiful, pale blue, graceful, covered in glittering frost. _Promise me, Ned,_ Lyanna'd said to Arya's father. _Father_. Father and his secrets, so many. All those other stupid flowers did were remind her of the past, of the bad things that had happened to her. The violets reminded her of the flowers she'd picked for her father in the Neck, before that horrible Lannister queen killed Lady and Mycah died and everything went wrong. The silk flowers were the same as Father's eyes. And the roses, the roses were like blood. The velvety petals, the smooth colour most would consider beautiful, made her _sick_, sick to her stomach. All the people she'd killed's blood, Mycah's blood, Sansa'd blood, after she'd told Arya of how Joffrey had made the Kingsguard beat her, her _own_ blood… And her father's blood. Yoren had made sure she hadn't seen it that day outside the Great Sept, but she saw it in her dreams every night. The blue roses only held happy memories, even if they weren't her own. Arya remembered the moment Lyanna had died, and the second between seconds she slipped away into the sky. Arya remembered feeling everything Lyanna'd felt, all the pain and fear and hurt, but the _love,_ too. Arya wished she could feel love like that again, but she knew she was too broken.

She'd dressed in a plain white tunic, one that hadn't many stains, grey breeches, and a plain black cloak. She supposed Sansa would say she should have dressed better to meet a queen, but it was all she had, bought with the coins she'd found discarded or dropped on the streets over the years. She'd set out for Pentos, buying an old gelding with the coin the kindly man had given her. When she'd arrived in Pentos, dusty and tired after a week's hard riding, she'd gone to the docks, anxious and distrustful, searching for the last Targaryen.

She hadn't needed to search for long. Daenerys had just been stepping off the gangplank, silver hair gleaming in the sun. The hair would've been enough, if not for the monstrous dragon at her side, eating little cutlets of charred meat out of her palm. It was jet black, with eyes like molten fire. Arya had steeled herself, determined not to show fear of the beast.

The queen's guards had tried to stop her, two tall, brutish men with copper skin and dark, almond shaped eyes, another three wearing big, gold spiral hats, and another, old, white-haired man. He seemed familiar to Arya, the old one. She knew she'd seen him before, but couldn't remember where. When the dark-skinned one had moved to push her away, the little queen had stopped him with a small, pale hand on his forearm. She'd said something in a tongue Arya couldn't understand, a harsh and quick language.

Arya'd sucked in a breath, preparing to say her speech, but the white-haired man had cut her off before she'd even begun.

He'd stepped in front of her, looking searchingly at her face. "I know you." He'd said, shaking his head. "But it's impossible…" He reached out with his hand and cupped her chin, tilting her head this way and that. She'd jerked her head out of his grasp, looking instead at Daenerys, and trying furiously to remember the manners she'd been taught so long before.

"Your Grace." She'd said, dipping into a clumsy curtsy, feeling more a fool with each passing moment, searching her brain for the white-haired man's name, eyeing the hulking dragon with apprehension. "I come to you on behalf of House-"

"Stark. You, girl, can only be a Stark." The old man said gruffly.

"How do you know me?" She'd demanded.

"I knew your father- and his brother, and sister." He looked at her oddly, taking a strand of her hair, which was fluttering into her face in the wind, in his fingers. "You're the very image of her."

"Who?" The little queen had said sharply. "Who is this girl, Ser Barristan?"

It clicked together in Arya's mind. "Barristan Selmy. Barristan the Bold. I knew I'd seen you somewhere before!"

He gave her a gruff smile. "Smart girl. Last time you saw me you couldn't have been more than ten."

"I was nine. You were in the Kingsguard." She said, studying the man. He looked older, but still strong.

"I thought you told me all the Starks were dead, Ser Barristan." The queen said, looking irritatedly at Ser Barristan.

"I believed it so, Your Grace. Lord Stark beheaded, the younger girl missing when I left… Then, I heard that a Greyjoy had killed the two younger boys, the Red Wedding took care of Lady Stark and eldest son, and the girl Sansa went missing after Joffrey's wedding. I thought her to be with the Imp, who they'd wed her to, but as we know, Your Grace, Tyrion has no idea where his little wife is."

"I hid in Flea Bottom after they took my lord father." Arya told him. She hated telling people who she was, opening herself up for attack, years of hiding and lying screaming at her to speak them false. She couldn't, though. Bran had showed her she couldn't. She was confused as well. Who was the Imp married to? "Then, Yoren, a man of the Night's Watch took me north disguised as a boy heading for the Night's Watch. He was going to bring me to Winterfell, but we were attacked." She said unwillingly, refusing to say more in public.

"You're the younger girl. The wild one." He said, recognition blooming in his eyes.

"Arya." She said, nodding. "And I've come to offer the alliance of House Stark to you, Your Grace." She said, looking at the little queen. She was beautiful, no doubt; amethyst eyes and hair of silver. She wasn't dressed in an intricate gowns or jewels though, as Arya'd expected, but a worn leather vest and sand silk trousers.

The queen's eyebrows shot up. "The Usurper's dogs come to give me help?" She'd said, looking incredulously at Ser Barristan.

He'd regarded Arya for a moment before saying, "Perhaps we should continue this discussion away from listening ears, Your Grace."

"Yes." Dany'd agreed. She looked at Arya. "You will accompany us to our accommodations."

They'd gone to the fat man's house, something about his face stirring Arya's memory. They'd taken her to an empty, airy room, and the queen rounded on her now they were in private.

"Have you anyway to prove your identity?" She'd demanded.

"Well-" Arya'd said. "I do, but I'd prefer to tell you my story before I show you."

The queen had nodded, settling into a chair. The dragons were in the courtyard, and Arya could hear the buffets of their wings as they playfully snapped at each other in the air.

So she told them her story. King's Landing, her father, Joffrey, running away with Yoren, the gold cloaks, everything. Everything- except the men she killed. She would tell no one that. Then she told them about Bran, and about the things he'd shown her. The queen had looked more and more incredulous as she went on, and when Arya'd finished she said, "I'm sorry, my lady, but I have a hard time believing you." She shook her head apologetically.

"It is a far-fetched tale you tell, girl." Ser Barristan had agreed.

"I'm no lady, Your Grace. And I thought you might say that. If I may?" She'd said, holding out her hands.

The queen had looked curious, and put her hands in Arya's own. She reached out, the way Bran had taught her, feeling for her brother where he was waiting so far away. Bran was ready, and flowed through Arya into the little queen.

She'd taken a shuddering breath, her eyes flickering closed. Barristan had jerked towards her concernedly, but Daenerys shook her head.

"Oh." She said, "Oh."

She sat watching the queen as Bran showed her the truth about Jon, about the wars that had ravaged Westeros, about the Others, showed her the North grown strong again. When the queen opened her eyes again, they were purple fire.

"She speaks the truth, Ser Barristan. Instruct Illyrio to find her a room." She'd said, eyeing Arya with more respect now that she knew her pledge to be true.

Daenerys had asked her to sup with her, and to sit and talk with her afterwards. She'd asked Arya about her home, Winterfell. About her brothers and sister. About what had happened in Westeros before she had left. Bran had filled her in, but Daenerys seemed to want to know about the Starks in particular. Arya thought it was because they were her first allies, and Arya's brother- no, cousin,- Jon was half Targaryen. Arya had told her of Bran, of Rickon, of Sansa and Robb. Robb in particular, the queen was interested in.

"Your brother rebelled against the Usurper's son after they killed your father?" She'd asked Arya, sipping on the tea Illyrio's servants served them.

"Yes." Arya'd said softly. _So close_. She'd been so close to Robb, to her mother. "They crowned him King Robb when he was barely fifteen. Called him the Young Wolf."

"And then the Freys betrayed him? After he married the Westerling girl, against his betrothal?"

"He was only sixteen. Hardly older than I am now. We all make mistakes. The Freys _murdered_ him, and my mother." Arya'd said heatedly.

"I know." Dany'd replied soothingly. "You'll have your revenge." They hadn't spoken for a few moments, a comfortable silence between them.

Then Dany'd spoke suddenly. "I intend to take up you alliance, Arya. But on conditions."

Arya had watched her guardedly, trying not to seem too eager. "What might they be, Your Grace?"

"From what you've told me, and what your brother-" She'd swallowed. "-_showed_ me, it seems the north and south has been split. I learned from Meereen not to change things that people don't want changing, at least not immediately after conquering somewhere. That is how you earn the name Usurper. I think it wise for me to rule from the Neck down, your brother from the Neck up. What say you?"

Arya had been shocked. She had never thought to recover Robb's kingdom. Only to recover Winterfell. "I- I think those most generous conditions, Your Grace."

Dany'd smiled wryly. "I'm not done. There must be a marriage pact to seal the alliance. And your brother Jon must come to King's Landing, and rule with me."

Arya's stomach had dropped to the floor. Marriage? Who would have to wed? Sansa was already married, so her or Rickon? Arya had never considered marriage, even as a child. _Rickon. He'll be the king, so he'll be the one who weds._ It was one relief, at least. But what of Jon?

Arya had missed him the most. And now his vows to the Night's Watch were void, he could come _home_. But now Daenerys demanded he come with her, be her King, far south from the sweet cold of Winterfell.

She knew she'd no choice, but the words tasted bitter on her lips. "Yes, Your Grace. I find those conditions most agreeable."

Then Arya had spent time convincing her to use her dragons for the Night's Watch. Daenerys wore a horn on a fine black gold chain around her neck, a beautiful thing wrought of Valyrian steel, rubies and black gold. Arya thought it just a decoration, a pretty bauble. Until she saw Daenerys fly Drogon, that was. She raised the little horn to her lips, and blew a clear, sharp note from it. The dragon's eyes had widened, and from then on girl and dragon were one mind, one being.

When Arya had asked her where she'd gotten it, Daenerys had told her how a Greyjoy had tried to take her hand, and how his brother had a magic horn to control her dragons. She'd known she needed to find some way to make sure no one could steal them from her. She'd ordered her ship sail for Valyria, and had come out of the smoking ruins with stacks of Valyrian steel, dragonhorns, spell-imbued whips, jewels, gold, dragonglass- and fourteen dragon's eggs, petrified into stone by time, as Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal's had been. She was rich beyond dreams, with wealth to rival even Illyrio's.

When Arya had been about to leave her, Daenerys had gifted her with her armour, enamelled in Stark colours, with a direwolf helm. It was beyond her childhood dreams, perfect and fierce and deadly. It was only after Daenerys had told her that she realised it was forged of Valyrian steel, from the stores Dany'd found in the ruined Freehold.

"Unbreakable." Dany'd said, with tears in her eyes. "To keep you safe until we meet again." She swept Arya into a tight embrace, and though usually Arya didn't like being held, didn't like closeness as a rule, the little queen had become her friend, and they wouldn't be seeing each other for months, so she held her only friend in the world tight.

Coming home had been euphoric. Riding into the courtyard on Visenya, the mare born from Dany's silver, had been beautiful. Beautiful, and perfect, and wonderful. Home. She was _home_.

Sansa was more beautiful than ever, her red hair lustrous and thick, blue eyes shining. Her eyes slid past her, to her husband, Harry Hardyng, boyish and bright and joyful. Rickon was so _big_, tall and strong, almost taller than she was at fifteen. She hardly knew him. Shaggydog was by his side, monstrous, but not as huge as Nymeria. Then she looked past Rickon, and her insides froze.

What was _he_ doing here? No, no- He _couldn't_, it wasn't _fair_. He _knew_ her- really knew her. Knew about the men she'd killed. Once, she'd thought him a part of her pack, but then he'd decided to _leave_ her. And now he was here, looking at her with such happiness in his blue eyes_. So blue_.

She refused to look at him, turning back to her family,- _family_ - she'd slid down from her horse, looking at them instead. Rickon, who looked so like Robb, Tully blue eyes and auburn hair, tall and stocky for a nine-year-old. Sansa was taller, much taller than Arya, and more beautiful than she'd ever be. The same Tully features, the image of their mother, slender and womanly and radiant, the sun shining on her hair.

Then the dam broke, and she was crying and running to them and they were crying too, and suddenly Jon was there, and she had it, she had this- family. The one thing she'd never thought she'd have again.

Sansa led her to the feast, and they were joking and jesting with each other, the wildlings they had met in the Gift that had decided to follow Jon to war eating below them. Arya hadn't sat at this table in a long time, year and years, and she'd never sat at it without her father and mother. Rickon sat in Lord Eddard's seat now. She was happy, happier than she'd been in a long time, but she was cold inside too.

Sansa was different. She wasn't as spoilt, as bratty. Sansa was _kind_ now, and she seemed to have missed Arya.

Arya remembered going to the godswood, taking a different route after _that_ night, and meeting Sansa there, crying softly. Arya had ran to her, demanded to know what had happened, but Sansa just shook her head.

"Being home- it's brought it all to the surface. Mother should be here. Robb should be here. _Father_ should be here. And I'm afraid-" She'd resolved to sobs, hiccupping, "-I'm afraid they'd be ashamed of me." She was shaking, and Arya pulled her sister into her arms, feeling her warmth through her thick cloak.

"Why would they be ashamed of you, Sansa? You've been so brave. They'd be_ proud_." Arya was flabbergasted. _Why_, why would her beautiful, perfect sister have anything to be ashamed of? Her sister, who'd never killed anyone?

"Because of _Littlefinger_!" Sansa'd howled.

"Littlefinger?" Sansa'd told Arya of her time in the Vale, disguised as Lord Baelish's bastard daughter. "Why?"

"Because- because-" Sansa hiccupped, steadying herself against Arya's shoulder. "He made me play at being more than his daughter." She said miserably.

Arya drew in a sharp breath. "Sansa-" She took her sister's face in her hands. Her eyes were red, the blue bitter and dejected. Arya stared her in the eyes. "-Sansa, what do you mean?"

Sansa drew in a shuddering breath, and her eyes widened, as though she was only now realizing where she was. She stood, looming over Arya, fists clenched. "No, nothing, nothing, I- I was merely d-dreaming, sister." Sansa made to walk back towards the castle, but Arya stopped her with a tight grip on her sister's arm.

"Sansa." Arya said, with steel in her voice.

Sansa turned her eyes back to her sister, the deep blue swimming in tears. "I can't." She whispered, voice unsteady.

"Tell me." Arya said, with the same steely tone.

And Sansa, tall, dignified, beautiful Sansa collapsed against her sister, burying her head against Arya's shoulder. As Sansa's legs buckled, Arya sank to the ground with her, enfolding her shaking sister in her skinny arms, her knees sodden in the snow.

"What did he do to you, Sansa?" Arya asked coldly.

"It was the night of me and Harry's wedding." Sansa said wretchedly, her voice muffled against Arya's cloak, snow in her hair. "He'd put something in Harry's wine." Arya's throat closed, a cold bubble of fear blooming in her heart. "What did he do to you, Sansa?" She'd repeated.

Sansa pressed her lips into a thin line. "He raped me, sister." She glared Arya in the eyes, almost daring her to say something comforting, something to try and take the pain away.

Arya wasn't that stupid. Sansa'd always been the one who loved the songs, and it seemed like she'd realised that real life was different. Life was pain and hurt and rage, and Arya wasn't stupid enough to think differently. She knew that there _was_ no way to numb the pain, to comfort yourself. Only revenge.

"I'll kill him." Arya said, looking at her tall, beautiful sister brought so low, nodding her vow, fury bubbling in her stomach.

"Oh, sweet sister." Sansa'd said, a bitter smile gracing her perfect lips. "I already did. After he'd had me on the bed that was supposed to be mine and Harry's, he decided to take me to his own chambers. When he dragged through the great hall, I stabbed him with the knife he'd given me to hide in my skirts. Then I pushed him out the Moon Door. Do you know what he said, just as I stuck the knife in?" Sansa said, jaw clenched.

Arya'd shook her head.

"He said, 'Why, Cat?'" Sansa huffed out a breath, misting in the frigid air. "When I begged him not to, when Harry was lying unconscious on the floor, when he ripped my shift to pieces, he called me Cat. Cat, for our mother. I didn't want to, I didn't want to, _I didn't _but-" She pressed her face to Arya's chest, sobbing a chorus of _hemademe hemademe hemademe._

Arya'd helped her up, leading her to castle, through the doors, up a staircase, left, right, up again, and then through the second door on the left, into her own rooms. The fire was burning low, and Arya heaped more wood onto it after she'd settled Sansa in a chair, a thick fur draped over her. Her mind was racing. Sansa really had learned to lie. How had she not known, not realised something was so terribly wrong as this?

She poured them each a cup of wine, and when she turned to hand Sansa's to her she found her sister watching her with red eyes. Arya settled herself in a chair next to her, and wondered what to say.

"Does-" She'd said, breaking the silence. "Does Harry know?" Sansa's young husband had been very likable, happy and boyish and handsome and so in love with Sansa. Sansa sighed. "Harry knows everything. It turns out Yohn Royce had planned to have Littlefinger killed because he knew that Petyr'd poisoned Lord Robert. Our cousin," Sansa'd said, after seeing Arya's confused expression. "Mother's sister Lysa and Jon Arryn's son. The heir to the Vale. He killed him so Harry would become Lord of the Eyrie, and I the Lady."

Arya'd nodded, but she still didn't really understand. She had no taste for the intrigues of court, even when she'd been a child.

"I'm sick of it, Arya." Sansa said suddenly, her voice forceful. "I'm sick of all the lies and secrets and scheming. I had to tell Harry. I couldn't keep anymore secrets. I couldn't lie to him. I didn't want to." She said tiredly. "I love him. And I don't want anymore secrets. Ever. I just want to be _here_, home, with you and Rickon and Harry. Our family."

Arya sipped her wine, even though she didn't really like it, and Sansa did the same, the crackling of the now-roaring fire the only noise.

"What happened in Braavos, Arya?" Sansa said quietly, looking sombrely at Arya.

"Nothing." She said, her voice void of emotion.

"Arya-"

"Nothing happened Sansa. A kind old man and a waif took me in, and I did work for them." _Not a lie_, she thought, _I'm not lying to you._

"What sort of work?" Sansa'd asked, still looking Arya in the eyes.

"Nothing interesting. I sold fish for them, cleaned for them…" She replied. _I'm so sorry, Sansa. I can't tell you my secrets. I can't._

"Are you sure?" Sansa said, blue eyes pleading. _How she wants to believe nothing bad happened to me_, Arya thought.

"Yes." She replied, holding her sister's gaze. _I've learned to lie, too_.

The maid tied over the end of her braid, and spoke, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Will that be all, m'lady?"

"Yes, thank you." Arya croaked, her throat dry. She reached for the cup of water on her table, and drank. "And as I said before, I will no longer be needing your service."

The maid bowed, and turned to leave, but before her and the others could, the one called Ama ducked through the tent door, a bunch of flowers in one hand and a bucket of water to make tea and soup from in the other.

"An admirer asked me to give you these, m'lady." She said, dipping her head.

Arya sighed inwardly. More roses like blood, taken from Wintefell's glass gardens. If it was Col Cerwyn again she'd scream. Sansa had begged her to be a little less icy towards her would-be husbands, and Col had been the first one to come to her after Sansa had made her plea. He'd been following her around like a stupid little puppy ever since, even Nymeria's growls not discouraging him.

Turning in her chair, her breath hitched in her throat. In her hand, Ama clutched a bundle of the pale blue winter roses, the frost beginning to melt from the heat of her hand.

Striding suddenly from her chair, the took the flowers in her hands. _They can't be the same ones_, she thought, looking at where the blue rose she'd picked earlier lay next to her pillow.

"Who gave you these?" She'd demanded.

The maid looked startled. "He- He did not say his name, m'lady."

_Not Col Cerwyn, then_. He was always slabbering to take credit for all of the things he gave her. "What did he look like?" She asked Ama.

"Tall, broad, thick of shoulder… I could not tell past that, m'lady, he was wearing a cloak, the hood drawn up." She said, setting down the bucket, holding the flowers out to Arya.

She took them in her hands, avoiding the sharp thorns. She knew they had to be from the same patch she'd visited earlier; she'd walked for a good while looking for the roses, and the odds were against another patch being nearby. No one but Bran even knew she _liked_ them.

"Where did he give them to you?" She asked the maid, who had turned to begin pouring tea.

"Just outside the tent, m'lady." Ama answered, holding out a steaming cup towards her.

Arya turned and strode out the door, the icy air hitting her like wall. She breathed it in, the cold sharp in her lungs.

There was no one matching the maid's description, just a sparse few people bustling about the camp, lighting fires and knocking the snows from the wooden roofs. She looked down at the roses again, realising that the only way someone would know she liked them was if they'd seen her kneeling among them that morning, crying. _I was thinking of Lyanna, and Jon, and Father, and Mother_. She'd been thinking of how thing's could've been so different if her father had at least told her mother. Or if Lyanna had survived. Or if Rhaegar hadn't died at the Trident.

A sudden thought occurred to her, jerking her head up. She looked around warily.

Who had followed her to the roses?


End file.
